The Undoer

by Melissa J. Cunningham

  I slip into a window seat and slide the top half of the window down, letting the warm wind blow my hair back. It feels so good. I wish I could take off my shirt and let my whole body be enveloped by the breeze, but sitting on a bus in only a sports bra will bring unwanted attention. Plus, I’m not brave enough to do that in front of Bret, let alone Jag.

  “So, what time did you leave this morning?” Bret asks, sitting down next to me and leaning close so he doesn’t have to speak too loud. He already asked this question, but I’d deftly avoided answering. I guess he’s trying to pin me down. Is he jealous? For some reason, that doesn’t give me the thrill I thought it would.

  I glance across the aisle at Jag, who stares out the opposite window, a somber frown on his face, his expression cold and unreadable. One of his hands rests on the dagger at his hip, the other on his thigh. He looks tense and ready to spring from his seat at the least provocation.

  Bret is still gazing at me with an uncomfortable intensity. I squirm, unnerved, and don’t want to confide in him. It’s too soon since our kiss. “Early,” I answer, and then I go back to looking out the window.

  “I don’t mean to pry. I was just worried.” He gives me a dejected smile, and my heart breaks just a little.

  Releasing a pent-up breath, I whisper, “I know. I’m sorry. I just feel… so stupid.” That little confession feels monumental, and I chance a glance into his soulful eyes. I find compassion in his gaze and maybe even a bit of forgiveness. But for what? I haven’t done anything wrong. Just kissed a really cute guy. My feelings for him have changed though—after everything—and I am no longer crushing on him, but there is still a strange, deep connection, and I want to be close to him. It’s impossibly confusing, considering my rapidly awakening feelings for Jag.

  At that moment, Jag glances over. One of his eyebrows lifts as he takes in Bret’s close proximity and our covert conversation. If he’s curious or jealous, he doesn’t let on. He goes back to looking out the window.

  “It’s okay,” Bret says. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Really. It’s just… well, I’ve already given my heart to someone else.” He grins, but it’s more of a grimace, and his words do anything but soothe my wounded pride. He’s already in love.

  “To… who?” I ask before I can stop myself. The dread of knowing slams into me and squeezes that pumping muscle in my chest. For some reason, I still want to be important to him. I want to be someone he wants.

  “She was… someone who died. Her name was… well, it doesn’t matter.” So he isn’t gay. He loves a girl. A dead girl. She probably died in the Rift like so many others, but that was a long time ago. Isn’t he ready to let her go and love again? “And you don’t want to move on?”

  He shakes his head and wears an expression of hopelessness, his brows rising and his lips pressed tightly together. “I can’t move on. I’ll never be able to. She stole my heart and took it with her.” He laughs as though he knows how corny it sounds, but to me, it sounds heavenly. Would any boy ever utter those words about me?

  I try to picture that phrase coming out of Jag’s mouth, but then I laugh to myself. That will never happen. He’d liked a girl during the Rift, but I don’t know much about it. He won’t talk about her and neither will Dean.

  Jag stands up and bangs on the ceiling. The bus pulls to the side of the road, and we are left on a dusty, deserted street. I consider my two cohorts and then down the street we go, searching for any signs of life in the DQ.

  I don’t come here. Ever. Some buildings are crumbling, damaged beyond repair. The streets are empty. No dogs bark. No birds sing. No children play in the gutters or ride bikes down the sidewalk.

  The sun beats down relentlessly, and I wish I’d worn my tank instead of a full T-shirt. I didn’t even bring water. My mouth is starting to feel like the streets, dry and dusty.

  “I need something to drink,” I say finally. “I’m going to check out that shop.” I point across the street to a soda fountain storefront that has no glass in the front window, just broken shards of someone else’s dream, ready to slash and cut anyone who trespasses.

  The door is cracked open and I push against it, the hinges stiff and squeaky. Bret places his hand above mine and, reluctantly, the door opens for us. Russet-colored leaves carpet the floor and bleached, red vinyl stools stand at the counter. They wait for patrons that will never come. The back of the shop is dark and shrouded in shadow. The store is silent and as creepy as a graveyard on Halloween.

  There has to be something liquid here, something that someone has not ransacked yet. The more I think about it, the thirstier I become. Rather than search the little shop with me, Bret sits down on one of the stools. He draws in the dirt on the counter, doodling. It stops me for a moment because it’s something my brother Brecken would have done, right down to the way he curves his pointer finger. Weird.

  I shake my head, tempted to say something. He reminds me so much of him, and it makes my heart happy. I’m tempted to walk over and hug him, maybe even dole out a Wet Willie, just to show my affection. He glances up then as though he can feel my gaze. He smiles, his dimples creasing in his cheeks. So much like Brecken.

  “I’m going to check the back. There’s nothing up here.”

  “Okay. Yell if you need anything.” He turns to watch out the front window.

  I doubt I’ll need anything. I’m pretty self-sufficient and skilled at defending myself. I push through a swinging door with a small, round window at the top. It’s dusty and impossible to see through. The door opens into a kitchen with a deep fryer, a sink, and dusty, stainless steel pots that hang from the ceiling. I’m tempted to take a few down to take home with us. We need pots and pans. They can be polished up, but I don’t want to haul them around all day, so I pass them by.

  There are plenty of cupboards to go through. Some are homes to rats. I hold a scream inside when a rat as big as a housecat runs across my shoe when I open the door to his residence. I almost lose it right there.

  Mouse droppings are all over the floor and counters, light barely penetrating through the dirty window in the door. Now, I’m no superhero, I know perfectly well that something could be hiding in this dismal kitchen, but why would they? The demons don’t anticipate us coming here or even entering this particular store. Especially in the daytime. The odds are slim, but still, I’m wary.

  There’s a refrigerator at the back, but it’s dark and empty. It has been for a long time, although a rotten stench permeates the lining, and I quickly close the door. With a sigh, I head back to the front. When my hand presses against the swinging door, goose bumps sprout along my arms and I freeze, listening. I sense someone else in the room, like the apparition of a ghost. The room doesn’t get cold or change in any way, but I feel it. Like an invisible phantom breathing down my neck.

  Darting for the door, I push through, huffing in fright. I run smack into Bret’s back. He faces the front of the store, his Nephilim sword drawn.

  A demon stands before him, possessing the body of an average-looking guy who wears a denim jacket even though it’s a hundred degrees out. He’s clean cut and nice looking, smelling of aftershave rather than death, so I already know he has more brains than the last demon we encountered.

  “We meet again, Bretariel,” the demon drawls with a half-smile.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any Bretariel.” Bret’s voice trembles, and I glance at him. I’ve never seen him unnerved, and it makes my heart beat erratically. If he’s nervous, a demon slayer without remorse, how much more of a need did I have to be afraid? And who’s Bretariel? The name feels strange on my tongue. I’ve never heard it before.

  “Let’s not play games, old friend.” And then the demon’s gaze lands on me. His eyes widen and his eyebrows rise. “Oh, I get it.” The demon doesn’t look the least bit afraid of Bret or his Nephilim sword. “The Great Undoer is here incognito. Do you suppose I will keep your secret?”

  Bret is poised to thrust.
“I’m not looking for trouble. Just information.” He stares hard at the demon, his eyes never wavering. A vein pulses in his forehead, sweat beading along his brow and upper lip. He looks terrified, and I can’t get the demon’s words out of my head. They know one another? Slowly, I pull my dagger from its sheath and hold it against my leg, prepared to lunge.

  Bret circles around a table and I follow, staying at his back. Step by step, he forces the demon to shift position until his back is to the door to the kitchen. He has nowhere to run.

  “We’re looking for a boy named Dean. All we want is to know if you know anything about it.” Bret’s voice grows strained and higher pitched than normal. His hand shakes.

  “A boy named Dean?” the demon repeats, his smile incredulous. “He must be an important player if The Great Undoer has come looking for him.” He laughs, sounding like a cackling witch. His cynical laughter rings through the storefront. Seconds later, Jag bursts through the front door.

  “I heard laughing. What’s going on?”

  We don’t answer, keeping our eyes on the demon.

  Jag’s reaction is lightning quick. He has his dagger out and at the demon’s throat before it can even react.

  “Wait!” Bret screams as Jag bends the beast over the counter. “You know where Dean is,” Bret growls into the guy’s face, only inches away. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “My, my, you’ve found me out.” The demon doesn’t seem to mind the dagger at his throat. Nor does he act afraid of Jag’s silly runed knife.

  “Let him talk,” Bret says, pulling Jag back. The demon straightens and smoothes his clothes with a chuckle. If he has any weapon at all, he doesn’t show it yet.

  “So, where is he?” I scream, growing desperate and tired. Even though Bret blocks my way, my heart races and the sting of adrenaline coats the insides of my veins. I’m eager to start the battle I know we’ll win… before the demon can escape through a back door.

  “Fine, fine,” the guy answers, his hands up and placating. “I have heard of this boy, but what is he to you? A slave?”

  Bret takes a threatening step closer, his dagger raised. “Where’s the boy? And be careful how you answer. If you’ve hurt him in any way…”

  “You’ll what? Kill me? I’m not afraid of you, Undoer.” The demon’s back is almost to the kitchen door. All he needs to do is turn and dart into its depths. If he knows of an escape route, he just might make it. I don’t like the look on his face, like he knows the odds are in his favor.

  I quickly grow impatient with this bantering. This idiot isn’t going to tell us anything. They never do, not even with torture most of the time. We should just cut him down. The poor human who once inhabited his body is already gone, his soul hopefully dwelling peacefully in heaven.

  But still Bret waits, holding Jag and me off with a raised hand. “Stop calling me that. I’m not this Bretariel.”

  The demon gives us a knowing smile, his confidence abrasive and irritating. I’d like to smack him… or worse.

  “I am not afraid of you or your trinket,” he says, motioning to Bret’s Nephilim blade, but I can see the alarm in his eyes. That blade will end him for good, and I have a feeling he knows it.

  “I am the only one who knows where your little friend is hidden,” he continues, backing away slowly. “You kill me—you kill him.”

  Jag roars in fury, trying to push past Bret, but somehow, Bret holds him back without much effort. The expression on Bret’s face changes only marginally. A tighter grit to his jaw, a muscle flexing, a narrowness to his eyes. I marvel at his ability to stare the demon down and keep his cool.

  “Where is he?” Bret asks calmly. Maybe he thinks he should play good cop since Jag always plays the bad one. “What do you want in return, Coem?”

  “Wait—what?” Did Bret just call the guy by name? This demon that he doesn’t know?

  The demon’s smile widens. “Oops. Whatever will you do now?”

  Bret’s head drops, bowing in what looks like defeat. The muscles in his jaw clench and when he finally raises his eyes, he wears an expression I’ve never seen before. Fury mixed with defiance, blurred with impotence. “What do you want, Coem?”

  “Ah… you know me well, Bretariel.”

  Bret doesn’t move or even twitch, but Jag does. “You know him?” he asks, gesturing to Coem, finally piecing things together. He arrived to the party late.

  “Oh, we’re old friends,” Coem says. “He and I go way back.” His cold gaze never wavers. He watches only Bret, taking in every movement and expression, looking amused and fascinated.

  I’m fascinated too.

  The look on Jag’s face is downright murderous. I’m not sure who he wants to kill first. Bret or Coem. This whole situation is insane.

  Again, Bret asks, “What do you want?” His jaw clenches, and the degree of hate in his eyes is terrifying. Something is happening here. Something secret, evil, and dark. Chills prickle along my arms even though it’s an oven in here and we’re all dripping with sweat.

  It’s quiet for a moment and Coem crosses his arms over his chest, his smile easy. “I want you,” he says to Bret. “I want to be the one who finally takes down The Great Undoer.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Brecken

  The heat of their gazes pin me to the filthy floor, like a wasp in a bug collection. Coem has made no secret of our past relationship, and now Jag and Heidi want answers. She’s angry and confused, I can tell. I can’t blame them, but I also don’t want to explain.

  Coem wants me in trade for Dean, but that isn’t going to happen and wouldn’t work anyway. They’d just keep us both, and I don’t have time for that. I should have killed Coem the moment I saw him, but that is a lost opportunity now.

  I glance over at Jag. A million different emotions flash in his eyes. Disbelief, horror, disgust, hurt, betrayal. The dim soda shop grows even dimmer with his anger. I realize what a mistake it was to come here, but it’s too late to go back.

  “I swear, I’ve never been anything but honest with you,” I say.

  Jag doesn’t even take time to answer. He lunges… at me, his body slamming into mine, knocking the breath from my lungs. We slide across the dusty floor and into the rear wall, my head banging on the sharp edge of a broken chair.

  Dizziness spins me in circles, and for a moment, I can’t focus. That could also be from the fist that keeps pounding my face. It’s Heidi who finally drags Jag away, and by then, Coem has disappeared.

  Blood flows from my nose and down over my lips, the metallic taste of pennies filling my mouth. I wipe it away, but Jag’s animal hatred is still visible in the squint of his eyes.

  “I knew it! I’ve felt it all along. You are a demon, and I let you worm your way into the Cazadors. You lied to us… over and over!” He reaches down and grabs me by the shirt, pulling me close until our faces are only inches apart. “Was that your plan, jack-nit? To break us apart and kill us one by one in our sleep? And Heidi…” He gives a strangled curse, running a hand through his hair. “What were you going to do to her, once she felt safe in your apartment?” I don’t know why he hasn’t actually tried to stab me yet. I don’t ask. It might remind him he can. Maybe he wants answers more than my death, but this has gone far enough. I can’t keep lying about my identity. It isn’t getting me anywhere. They know something’s off. It’s time to spill my guts, metaphorically, not actually.

  “I wouldn’t ever hurt Heidi. Ever.” I try to wipe the dirt off my clothes. “I love her too much. She’s my sister, after all.”

  She stares at me, wearing devastation and betrayal on her face as well as a dash of confusion.

  “It’s me. Brecken.” I look only at her, trying harder than ever to somehow communicate soul to soul. I reach for her, but she backs away, closer to the counter, her eyes wide and showing only mistrust.

  “I mean it. It’s me. I was allowed to come back to help in this… demon battle.”

  “I think she’d recognize
her own brother,” Jag sneers, scorn staining his voice. He raises his knife, finally remembering he has one, I guess, but I pay him no attention. I look only at Heidi.

  “It’s true. They made me unrecognizable… so I could do this job without the complication of past relationships.” Saying it out loud sounds pathetic and stupid, and I wonder how I ever agreed to those terms.

  “Don’t move, or I swear I will cut you down where you stand,” Jag says with a ferocious growl. I’d been backing toward the door, but I stop. He isn’t lying, and even though I’m sure I’m stronger, I don’t want to make things worse.

  I keep my gaze on Heidi. “Remember my basement bedroom and how you thought it was haunted? Well, it was. Kind of. And remember we ate mac and cheese for lunch every day when Dad was gone plumbing? Sophie climbing in bed with you at night when she got scared? The gum under the coffee table? Your blow dryer that kept blowing a fuse? How would I know all of that if I weren’t your brother? It’s me. I promise.”

  She stares at me hard, as though trying to see inside me, to recognize something of the brother she remembers. “You look my age. Brecken would be in his twenties.”

  “I know. It’s just the age of this body.”

  She squints harder and leans forward.

  “He’s not your brother!” Jag roars. “Can’t you see what he’s doing? He’s trying to lure you away. You know how demons work. They can’t be trusted, Heidi. He’s a demon. How would that Coem guy have known him otherwise?”

  “That’s true. How did you know him?” she asks.

  I’ll never be able to get through to her with Jag yelling in her ear. When she pulls out her dagger and holds it in her fist, I realize I’ve lost.

  “Okay, so, that’s harder to explain, but I promise. I’m Brecken. I was sent back here to help close The Door to Hell because I know demons. It goes way back… I mean, eons of time back. Angels and demons both.”