I’m alone.
Softly, I move back, one slow step at a time, until I’m behind the biggest tree, my dagger in my fist. I can’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean I can’t defend myself. I’m tempted to call out, but I’d rather take whatever it is by surprise if I can. If we can’t see them, they can’t see us. It’s probably just an animal wandering around in the night, and I’m scaring myself to death over nothing, but we can’t take any chances. Jag has probably taken off after it.
When I think it’s safe to move, I feel a sudden presence behind me. I swirl around, my knife extended as I frantically peer into the darkness. The air moves in front of my face and I jump back, but not fast enough. Burning slices across my belly, and I grab my stomach in surprised reaction. A warm stickiness seeps through my tank top against my fingers. It’s not deep, but it stings like a mother.
I don’t bother being quiet now. “Jag! Bret!” I attempt to scream for Owen and Doug too, but my attacker strikes again. This time, his knife slices through the air like a soft breeze, inches from my face, and I feel it even though I can’t see him. I jerk back, tripping over my feet and falling over a prone body. I scream, my mind going immediately to Jag. I don’t have the chance to check who it is before my attacker is on me again, pushing me down and straddling me.
Against such a powerful foe, my arms feel weak and pathetic, and I’m tired from lack of sleep. But adrenaline is zinging through my veins, hopefully giving me the edge I need. He pins my wrists with his knees, and rocky pebbles dig painfully into my skin. I buck my hips and he falls forward, his head hitting me in the chin. With his body out of balance, I yank my arm free, still holding my dagger, and plunge it into the guy’s neck. He explodes in a cloud of russet ash all over my stomach. Some of him even gets in my mouth. I spit him out, so grateful it isn’t blood sliding between my teeth.
Blinking into the darkness, I search out the body I’d tripped over before I killed Dusty. I have to know who it is. I just couldn’t bear it if it turned out to be Doug, Owen, or heaven forbid, Jag. My toes find the body before the rest of me. Crouching, I run my hands over his still form. From the bandana tied around his face and the pajama-type clothes he’s wearing, I know he isn’t one of us. A rush of relief surges through me as I rise and search for my next victim.
I hear a struggle behind the tent and make my way, following the edges of the canvas. When I hear someone grunt and fall to the ground, I freeze, listening. And then it’s quiet. Shouldn’t people be yelling or crying out at the very least?
“Jag?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Jag?” I whisper again, moving closer to where the struggle was. My foot hits another prone body and I immediately crouch down, running my hands over the still figure while my eyes scour the dark. I’m panicked and can’t focus. I can’t tell who this body is. My fingers come away sticky, and I run my hands up the guy’s shoulders and then to his head. I’m sure it’s one of my boys, and my heart twists, tears welling in my eyes. I should have been protecting them better. I should have been more alert, more careful, more… something. I let a murderer sneak into our camp. I let him get close enough that he could ambush us.
The weight of my failure is oppressive and overwhelming, and when I run my fingers over long, shoulder-length hair, I cry out in anguish. Tear burst from my eyes as I realize what this means. I shake his body, hoping he’s only unconscious and not dead. Hoping he’ll wake up. This can’t be how it all ends. Not for us. The ache is almost too much and when he doesn’t move, when I find the slash across his neck, sticky with blood, I throw myself on top of him in abject misery.
I don’t even try to be quiet. What’s the point? I know what my fate will be when I’m found, and I’m tempted to plunge the knife into my chest myself. All my friends are dead. I never even told my aunt I was leaving. Sophie will always wonder what happened to me.
I let my tears spill.
And then the strike of a match startles me and I jump back, ready—in a millisecond—to fight again. He stands five feet away. My gaze moves up his legs, hips, stomach, and chest, and finally, to his face. His dark eyes search mine and, in a rush of emotion, he dives for me, scooping me up in his arms, pulling me so tight against his chest I can hardly breathe.
I grasp his golden head in my hands, hardly able to form words. “Jag?” I hold him against me, kissing his neck, his eyes, his face, his lips. Never have I felt such relief. One minute, I’m in the depths of despair and the next, I’m flying up to unimaginable heights… in one blink.
“You’re okay?” he asks me, my face cradled in his palms. He searches my eyes, but the match he lit is quickly dying in the dirt, and it’s getting hard to see again.
I can’t believe he’s really alive. I turn and crouch down next to the body I was so sure was Jag. “Who’s this guy then?” I study his features in the dying match light—long, black hair, smooth skin. He’s young, but definitely Middle-Eastern. No one I recognize. Some hired hitman of the demons.
Still trembling in relief and fatigue, Jag and I hurry to search the tent, finding it empty. Doug and Owen stand over another dead body dressed in black. His cohorts—piles of ash lying close by—are obviously unidentifiable.
Bret comes running back from the direction of the road, out of breath, his Nephilim dagger in his hand. “The guys from the restaurant… they followed us.”
“Are you sure it was them?” I ask, finally coming down from my adrenaline high, and my body starts trembling. I need my jacket and feel like I might vomit. I force myself to breathe deeply, sitting down on a nearby rock. We’re all alive. But why did I doubt? This is what we do. We’re Cazadors. Demon hunters.
And then Bret notices my bloody shirt. “Are you okay?”
The boys circle me, and I lift my tank. An ugly, red gash, about three inches long, stretches across my belly. “It doesn’t even hurt.” I press my fingers over the cut. Then it hurts.
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Doug says, hurrying back inside the tent.
The others stare at me as if I’m some kind of enigma to even still be alive. They rally around me, patting my shoulders, telling me how brave I am, and that they are so happy I’m still safe.
“I’m surprised it isn’t worse.” Bret examines the wound. “You’re lucky.”
“Or fast,” I answer. “Maybe I’m just a better fighter.” I mean it as a joke, but nobody laughs. The situation just isn’t funny. It was too close. We all could have been wiped out in one night. “Is anyone else hurt?”
“I am,” Owen says, stretching out his arm, showing us a gash on his bicep.
“My shoulder got nicked, but it’s not really worth mentioning,” Jag says.
“We’ll check it anyway.” My gaze moves over to Bret. He shakes his head. Every time I look at him, he becomes more and more familiar. More Brecken. I reach out to him and he slips into my arms, hugging me. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whisper in his ear.
“I’m kind of hard to kill,” he says, joking, but I think he means it.
I stare into his eyes in the match light. “You’ve died before.”
“That was my choice.” He smiles and hugs me again.
Doug comes back with the first aid kit and goes to work on my cut. I try to hold in a hiss as he dabs the wound. He smears some ointment on, and then tapes the bandage to my stomach. “It needs stiches.”
The boys all look at one another.
“The next town?” Owen asks.
“The next city with an actual medical clinic is over a day away.” Bret shakes his head and grits his teeth—telltale signs that he’s worried and doesn’t want me to know.
“There’s a sewing kit in my pack.” Owen glances at Doug. “Jag did your stitches, remember?”
Doug nods. “He’s stitched us up a lot of times. We can’t afford to go to the clinic, and not many people want to even if they can.”
Everyone glances at Jag. This is crazy. I’m tough, but I don’t know if I’m that
brave. “Uh… I think I’ll be okay.”
“If it gets infected, you’ll be no help to us. At the very worst… you won’t be here for it to matter.” His bluntness is always a surprise, but I’ve come to expect it too. It’s a catch 22, and I lift my eyes to the dark sky, trying to decide what I want to do… as if Jag will give me a choice.
“Get the lantern,” he says. “Doug and Owen will keep guard outside the tent. Let’s go inside,” he says to me as he thrusts out his hand for me to take.
I stare at him. “Are you crazy? I can’t do this. Not without something to numb it.”
“You can do it. You’re stronger than you think. Plus, you don’t want your stomach to fall out.” He smiles and shakes his hand at me, demanding I take it. I do and let him lift me from my spot on the rock. He leads me inside the tent, Bret right behind us with the lantern.
“Lie down,” Jag orders.
With a sigh of exasperation, I recline on my sleeping bag and pull up my dirty shirt. He threads the needle, and I close my eyes. I can’t watch.
Chapter Thirty-six
Heidi
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t the white-hot sting of the needle going in and out, over and over, in a million teeny, tiny stitches. Jag is meticulous. Every suture is even and straight. He’s like a surgeon, and I clutch Bret’s hand with all the strength I have inside me. Each time the needle goes through my tender wound, my toes curl in anguish. I try to breathe, panting methodically to control the pain, but it doesn’t work. My stomach muscles contract each time the needle pierces my skin.
I can’t stay still.
Bret presses my shoulders down, his hands like heavy weights holding me beneath the water, drowning me. I’m sweating profusely as I hold a thick piece of leather between my teeth. Tears leak from my eyes and the seconds tick by, feeling like an eternity.
Scuffling breaks out outside, and then shouts from Owen and Doug. Someone falls against the tent, and I scream out as Jag is shoved on top of me.
“What’s going on out there?” he yells.
“Nothing. It’s fine,” Doug says. “We got him.”
Owen pops his head into the tent. “It was another demon, but he’s dust. No worries. Just hurry up!”
My eyes roll in their sockets, but I call myself back from the edge, my heart racing. “I can’t take it anymore!” I try to push Jag’s hands away, but Bret grabs my wrists, holding me away from the needle. There’s more shouting outside the tent, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. I can’t concentrate on anything but the burning of my wound.
It’s only a second later that Jag sits back on his heels, the bloody thread dangling from the needle. “I’m done.” Setting the needle down, he wipes the stitches, and then smothers on antibiotic ointment. He covers the wound with a bandage.
I can hardly breathe. I really feel like I’m going to die.
“It’s all good,” Doug calls from outside. “No worries here. We’ll just stay out here by ourselves, killing one demon after another. No biggy.”
“Do you need anything?” Bret whispers to me, ignoring Doug’s sarcasm. He smiles, which actually helps. He doesn’t seem too worried, and it calms me a little.
I open my eyes, my heart slowing down, but I’m nauseated and my head is pounding, not to mention the burning of the sutures. I need painkiller. Something to knock me out, but we don’t have anything like that, nor do we have time for me to be drugged and out of it. I want to sob in frustration. Instead, I shake my head, grit my teeth, and say, “No, I’m good. Thanks.”
Bret squeezes my hand, kisses my forehead—which I almost don’t notice—and then covers my shivering body with a blanket. Yeah, it’s a hundred degrees outside, but I’m shivering. I close my eyes, trying to ignore the whole world.
“What time is it?” I ask as he lies down next to me on his bag.
“It’s almost five in the morning,” he answers.
The sun will rise in an hour and a half. Not much time to rest because we need to get moving. I sigh and let it all go—the exhaustion and the fear of almost losing Jag.
The enormity of our situation settles uncomfortably in my chest. I’ll be no help at all now. I’m the weak link. I’m going to get us all killed. We’re a man down and our mission seems impossible. How will we ever close The Door? It’s too daunting a task, and I’m too tired and in too much pain to figure it out.
***
It seems like only five minutes has gone by when Bret wakes me, but the sun is bright overhead. I feel dazed and achy; I can hardly move. In fact, I can’t get up at all. It hurts to roll to my side, and there’s no way I can sit straight up. My stitches pull and sting when I try. I don’t want to say anything, as I already feel weak and helpless, but Bret seems to understand. He takes my hand, placing his other hand behind my shoulders and lifts.
I get to a sitting position with tears brimming in my eyes. I would give anything for painkiller. Rolling to my knees, I make it the rest of the way by myself, but I’m sweating profusely, and the thought of pulling my tunic over my head just about makes me break down right there. I’m still wearing my bloody tank top.
I glance down at my clothes and Bret stares at me blankly, as if he knows what I’m thinking but doesn’t want to suggest helping. He’s my brother though. He has to. “It’s not coming off by itself.”
Bret grimaces. “Right.”
“I’ll help you change,” Jag says with a devious smile from the tent door, watching our exchange.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll help her,” Bret says, pushing Jag out and zipping the door closed.
“Hey, if you’re not man enough…” Jag says from the other side. He laughs, and I can hear him walking away.
I glance at Bret, expecting him to get mad or make a retort, but he doesn’t. He presses his lips together and waits for me. “In the top of my bag,” I point. “The white one.”
He opens my bag, grabs the white tunic and a white tank top. There’s a somewhat-white sports bra that he picks up delicately, like he might get cooties from it.
“Seriously, Brecken?”
His eyes go wide, and I realize I called him by his old name. I feel a blush creep up my cheeks, but I don’t apologize or say anything about it. He is my brother. I know it on the deepest level. I trust him implicitly, and I think Jag is actually coming around too.
Bret crawls closer, and I slowly raise my arms. “It’s ruined anyway. How about we just cut it off?” I suggest.
“Right. Good idea.”
I turn around as he slips his dagger from its sheath. He slices up the back of the ruined tank top. It separates like butter. Good old magic dagger. I won’t be able to wash the bloody sports bra I’m wearing, and it will be a nightmare to take off over my head.
“Just cut it,” I say, my face hot and thumping with my pulse. Bret’s expression matches mine, so I know he’s just as mortified. He averts his gaze and cuts. The straps slide down my shoulders, and I let the ruined material drop to the floor. I lift my arms up and Bret stands behind me, threading the clean underclothes over my hands. He slides the spandex bra down my arms with minimal pain. I adjust it before raising my arms for the tank and tunic. They slide on much easier, like a whisper over my chilled, yet fevered skin. I’d die for a bath.
“All done,” he says, surveying his work. “I should be a nurse.” He smiles, and I grin back at him.
“Thanks. I couldn’t have done it alone.”
“I know. Don’t worry about it.” He turns away, rolls up his sleeping bag, and grabs his pack. “I’ll get your stuff in a minute. Come out and sit down.”
“Okay.” I don’t even bother trying to pick up my backpack. I’ll need a few days to feel like I can do anything, but I’m afraid we don’t have that long. Owen has a bandage around his arm and Jag sports one over his shoulder. Other than that, we were lucky. How none of us died is a mystery to me. Maybe God is on our side after all.
The drive starts out hot and only gets hot
ter. We don’t pass any roadside stands, and we’re getting low on water. There might be a stream further into the hills, but Bret doesn’t want to deviate from our path. He’s convinced that staying on the road is safest, and he’s probably right.
Every bump in the road makes me feel like I’m being knifed all over again. It hurts to sit up and it hurts to recline. I can’t shift without gasping and I’m ready to start screaming… or crying profusely.
The next jostle of the car is the cherry on top. I just can’t take it anymore. “Are you trying to hit every pothole in the road?” I screech. Sweat is dewing on my forehead and upper lip. I wipe it away, knowing I’m in trouble. I need drugs. Antibiotics mostly.
Lunchtime rolls around, and the boys eat dates, figs, and cheese in the car. I can’t force the food past my lips. I’m too nauseous. The fruit is warm and mushy and the cheese has started to sweat, bending easily in my fingers. So gross.
It’s silent in the car most of the way until Doug pipes up late in the afternoon. “Want to play I-Spy?” he asks. “I know it’s a stupid game, but I’m totally bored.”
I glance into the backseat and hiss, pain slicing across my abdomen for the millionth time. “I’ll play with you. I’m bored too.” I need something to take my mind off myself. My seat is laid as far back as it will go without totally smashing Jag, who sits behind me. I’m so grateful he’ll let me recline. I don’t think I could sit up straight and not pass out. He plays with my hair and tickles my neck, and it helps me relax. I’m stunned that he performs such tender acts in front of the others. He doesn’t seem to give a crap about what anyone else thinks.
“I’ll play too,” he says.
Doug starts. “I spy with my little eye… something round, gray, and—”
“A boulder,” Jag says.
“Huh. Yep.” Doug shrugs. “There’s not much to choose from.”
The game goes on for ten minutes with things like skeletal shrubs, starving trees, and the occasional bird flying over.
The Undoer Page 23