The Undoer

by Melissa J. Cunningham

  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 n
eed 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.

  Chapter Seven

  Brecken

  At precisely seven o’clock, I’m at the corner of Spruce and Ivy Lane, where I’m supposed to meet Jag and Dean. Just as I suspected, they aren’t here. I wait a polite ten minutes before jogging the few blocks to the abandoned church I followed them to last night.

  All is quiet on that lonely, mostly uninhabited, dead-end street. It’s a perfect place for a hideout. The windows of the abandoned church are boarded up and the steeple stretches to a point, high and dirty white. Quaint. I like it immediately. At the end of the long block, a few kids ride old, rusty bikes in the sunset and one plays Kick-the-Can by himself.

  Someone will notice me loitering, so I knock on the front door of the church. I only stand there for a moment before I hear rustling and heated whispering from the other side. The door is yanked open and there stands Jag, eyes flashing, one hand stretched across the doorway to block my entry. He looks like he just might slam it back in my face. He’s speechless at my audacity.

  A serene smile stays plastered on my face as I peek over his shoulder at Dean, who waits behind Jag with a wide grin.

  “Hey, Bret! You found us,” Dean blurts, trying to slip under Jag’s arm.

  “Of course he did,” Jag mumbles, but he doesn’t step out of the way or invite me in.

  Dean pushes Jag’s arm up and ducks beneath it. “We ordered pizza, but not everyone is here yet.”

  Reluctantly, Jag moves out of the way.

  I lean back and survey the church, admiring the construction. “Yeah. It wasn’t too hard to find.” I glance back at Jag with a wry smile. “I had a feeling you might forget to meet me, so I said a prayer and an angel pointed me in the right direction.” I take pride in my comedic wit. It took eons to hone.

  He doesn’t answer, but his eyes narrow in obvious dislike.

  I’m stumped at why he hates me so much. He doesn’t even know me. Sure, I’m about to steal his place at the top, but only for a little while. I won’t stay here indefinitely. Only until the job is completed and The Door to Hell is closed.

  “Hey, guys!” someone calls from behind me. Two teenage boys saunter up the walk, one tall and thin with shaggy, brown hair. The other is short and stocky with military-short black hair and skin the color of mocha, his teeth gleaming white in his wide smile. Skinny carries a bag of pretzels he munches on.

  “Dude, did you order the pizza?” Stocky asks. “I’m starved.”

  “Yup,” Dean answers. “Should be here soon.”

  Jag turns to stare at Dean, his expression incredulous. “You gave the pizza place the church’s address?” His eyebrows pull together into a scowl, and I can tell he’s itching to say something more. Probably something about Dean’s stupidity, but he holds it in. Remarkable. I had expected him to let loose with a violent temper or something. I guess he does know how to control himself.

  “Well, yeah. I didn’t think it mattered,” Dean says. “The pizza guy isn’t going to call the police. Like they care if we live here.” Dean turns from Jag and glances at me, stuffing his hands in his pockets, looking perfectly chastised.

  With an angry growl, Jag shakes his head and stomps back into the bowels of the church, not even bothering to greet their friends.

  Dean shrugs and points to Skinny. “This is Owen.” Then gesturing to Stocky, he says, “And this is Doug.”

  “Nice to meet you both,” I say. “I’m Bret.” The boys acknowledge me with a nod and Skinny goes right on munching pretzels.

  “Bret wants to join the Cazadors,” Dean says. “You should see him in action.”

  Doug looks me up and down, but he must be unimpressed. “Really?”

  “He has a dagger you wouldn’t believe.” Dean points to my waist. “It kills demons before they take a body!”

  “Really?” Owen’s bored look turns to slightly admiring, but he seems to be withholding judgement. He holds the pretzel bag out to me. “Let’s see it.”

  “How about we go in?” I point to the church.

  The boys head inside, and I follow them into the chapel. Only a few pews remain and are pushed over against one wall. The building has sustained some damage and looks pretty dilapidated. The ceiling is cracked, and huge chunks of sheet rock and plaster are missing. The room is shrouded in shadow, but a lone pulpit stands at the front, waiting for a preacher. Dusty choir seats are arranged behind it, slumped like old men, their feet nailed to the floor. A few pieces of stained glass litter the floor beneath the windows, glowing in the evening light that threads through the cracks.

  The boys have built a fire pit in the center of the room over a mosaic of tiles, but the design is too far gone to tell what the picture was. The pit doesn’t look like it’s been used in a while. Owen drags one of the benches over, and Doug pushes another. He isn’t a huge kid, but he’s strong. The benches look solid and heavy.

  There’s plenty of room for all of us to lounge and wait for the pizza to arrive. I have to admit that I’m hungry. I’m glad they ordered dinner.

  These boys are a team, but I have yet to see the easy camaraderie I expected, so I wait for the ambiance to warm, to see them interact as a group. I sit down on a pew next to Dean, who chats happily, asking the other boys what they’ve been up to the last few days. Jag re-enters the chapel and leans against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His annoyance casts a dark pall over the room.

  Does he ever relax or loosen up? What is he so angry about? How does Dean stand being with him all the time? Is Jag abusing him? Man, I hope not. I want as little drama as possible while I’m here. I just want to get my job done and leave. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can be reunited with Alisa. This is my final exam, and I plan to pass with flying colors.

  “So, you don’t live here?” I ask Owen, trying to change the subject. I don’t really care who lives where. I just want to get them talking.

  He scowls, his thick eyebrows pulling down and his thin lips tightening. “Dude, we don’t get to.” He tosses a pretzel into his mouth and chews angrily. “Jag likes living alone. It’s stupid if you ask me. I’m tired of having to walk here every time we need to meet. It’s far, man. Like three miles.” He flips his head to the side, and the hair on his forehead flops out of his eyes.

  “So, only Jag and Dean live here then?” I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject, but now I’m curious. I glance over at Dean, and he is the only one nodding. Jag is suddenly nowhere to be found.

  “We live at home with our parents.” Doug gestures to Owen and himself. “We’re neighbors. We went to Hill Valley High together. Jag went to Ocean Side. He was a year ahead of us.”

  “Hey!” Jag interrupts, coming up a set of stairs by the front door. “This isn’t group thera
py. We don’t share everything. Some things are private. We don’t know this guy well enough to know what we can tell him.” He sinks down at the end of the opposite pew, splendidly pulling off the predator look as he gazes at us from under his long eyelashes, his jaw flexing.

  A tentative knock echoes on the front doors. Jag holds out a small bag to Dean, who grabs it. It jangles with change when he runs for the door. The pizza guy stands there, all dopey and confused as he studies the address. He holds a red, insulated bag in one arm, and the smell of cheese and pepperoni wafts clear across the room. I almost moan out loud.

  “You guys order pizza?” The guy tries to peek in.

  Dean keeps the door mostly closed and pays him in quarters, nickels, and dimes, most likely taken from dead demon dust piles. “Yep. Thanks.” He shuts the door before the guy can say anything else. When he places the boxes by the fire pit, we all dig in. Tomato sauce, cheese, and the tang of hot pepperoni assault my taste buds. My mouth waters as the explosion of flavor nearly lays me flat. My eyes close as I revel in the pleasure of something so simple. Hot. Gooey. Pizza. I chew slowly, relishing every bite.

  “Dude, you act like you’ve never had pizza before,” Owen says, his eyes laughing as he gazes at me.

  “It’s been years,” I answer, reaching for a second slice.

  “That’s crazy,” Doug says, talking with his mouth full. “I couldn’t go for more than a couple of days without it. It’s my main staple. I’d die without pizza, and it’s the only fast food that still exists… almost.” He takes another huge bite and smiles as if he’s just eaten the sun. I like him and want to know him better. Anyone who loves pizza as much as I do is an instant friend.

  Jag has yet to say much of anything. He eats quickly, methodically, just like he fights. He watches his friends, but he doesn’t participate in friendly conversation. He lounges, but the tenseness of his shoulders tells me he’s ready to jump at a moment’s notice. He’s all contradictions.