The Undoer (17 page)

Heidi

I lie on Dean’s sleeping bag, my arms crossed over my chest, staring at the ceiling. The candle that sits on the trunk flickers, making the shadows dance across the bare cement walls and ceiling. I repress a shiver, hating this room, and I think back over the day and all that has happened.

Jag snores beside me, oblivious to my musings. He hasn’t quite recovered from Bret’s punch in the face. He went straight to bed once we got him home, and Bret left without a word to go back to our apartment.

Now, awake in the quiet, I think about my brother, Brecken. Could he and Bret really be one and the same? My mind races to fill the holes of the last five years after he died. Was he reincarnated? And if it isn’t reincarnation, is it possession? Did he take over someone else’s body? That sounds too demonic for a benevolent god to do, but I’m not sure. I don’t know what to believe. It’s all too weird, crazy, and
un
believable.

Glancing at Jag, I study his sleeping form. The skin around his left eye has turned a deep shade of purple, and I wonder if his nose is broken. He has such a pretty face in sleep. So worry free and peaceful.

As though he can feel my gaze, he groans and cracks open his eyes, rolling onto his back, his hand coming up to delicately finger his bruises. “That jack-nit,” he groans. “I think he broke my nose.”

I don’t say anything, propping my head on my hand as I lie on my side. I can’t seem to stifle my smile. He’s so cute, lying there and complaining, saying the swearword he made up. It’s all very
Jag
and so endearing. Dean once told me he started using it when they were kids. Jag’s mom had washed his mouth out with soap from using a
real
curse word. It was one of the last interactions he had with her before she died in the Rift. He’d never used “bad” words again.

He glances at me. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I say, still smiling.

He tries to sit up, but he quickly changes his mind with another groan.

“You want something to eat or drink?” The food I have in my pack runs through my mind. Green tea, two granola bars, a mashed chocolate chip cookie still in its wrapper, and a couple of sticks of gum. Not much in the way of nutrients, but it will fill our stomachs.

“Nah. I’m not hungry.” He slowly rolls until he lies on his side, facing me. “How long did I sleep?”

“Only a few hours. It’s nine PM,” I answer. “Early.”

“Good.” Pushing himself to his feet as smoothly as the cat he is named for, he loses his grace as he stumbles toward the stairs. He leans against the wall, his head resting against the cement wall.

“Where are you going? You should rest. I think Bret gave you a concussion.” I leap up and try to take some of his weight.

He won’t have it and pushes me away as gently as he is capable, which isn’t that gentle. “It’s time to hunt.”

I know for a fact he hasn’t missed a night of hunting in five years. Why would he skip now when we still haven’t found Dean?

He looks up, his gaze heavy, his eyes full of anguish. “I can’t stay here knowing Dean’s being tortured or worse. I can’t rest until I know if… if he’s even still alive.”

If anyone is being tortured, it’s Jag. The rest of us too, but none more than him.

“I know,” I say. “I feel the same, but you can’t fight like this.” I gesture to his whole body, begging him to lie back down.

He shakes his head, making a slow ascent up the stairs. “I can’t. I just… can’t.”

If he goes alone… “Okay,” I say, relenting. “I’ll go with you.” I don’t offer to call Bret for help. I know what Jag’s answer to that would be. I strap on my two runed daggers and pull on my jacket. Jag takes a bit longer to get ready. How he intends to get any work done in his condition, I don’t know, but I do know better than to argue. Maybe we won’t encounter any demons tonight. Maybe we’ll just miraculously stumble into Dean. Wouldn’t that be nice?

As we walk slowly down the church’s darkened street, the stars begin to peak through the clouds. A warm breeze wafts over us, smelling sweet for once, like flowers instead of rotting garbage. I take it as a sign of good luck.

We head to the plaza, which is always Jag’s MO, and hide in the copse of trees. The nightlife has already started. Music pulses from the bar across the street and people visit or dance on the grass. You’d think they’d learn to stay home, but no, night after night, they come back to drink and party and get possessed by demons.

No one looks out of the ordinary at the moment, but Jag studies each swaying hippie and beach bum with intense scrutiny. He doesn’t trust anyone.

We wait until midnight, but no demons show, and for once, I’m glad. Jag is starting to sway himself, so he reluctantly lets me lead him back to the church. The wretched expression never leaves his face. He falls onto his sleeping bag, exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, not sure, exactly, what I am sorry for. No demons showing up? Brecken hitting him? Me being here with him? Dean missing? The Rift in general? I am sorry for all of it and wonder if he wants me to leave.

“Me too,” he says, turning over and leaving his back to me.

Figuring it’s a sign he wants to be alone, I start back up the stairs.

“Don’t go,” he says. “Can you lay here with me for a while?”

“Sure.” I plop back down on Dean’s bag, unsure if I should snuggle up next to him or just sit there. I’m not good at this. I don’t flirt. I don’t play games. If he wants company, I can be company, but I’ll need a more specific message if he wants something more than that. Like a huge neon sign above his head with a bright red blinking arrow. Just because he kissed me doesn’t mean he likes me, although I hope it does.

“Do you
want
to go?” He rolls back to face me, his eyes glistening. It makes tears spring to my own to see Jag’s emotions so close to the surface. I don’t think anyone has ever witnessed tears in his eyes before.

“Not really. I just don’t know what to do or what you want from me.”

He studies me a moment, his gaze dipping to my mouth and then back to my eyes. A flush creeps up my neck, and I can’t hold his stare. Taking my hand, he pulls me down next to him, drawing me back against his chest so we’re spooning. He pulls me closer, breathing into my hair. I close my eyes, basking in this new feeling. His thighs press against the back of my legs, and I feel completely protected. A wholly foreign experience for me… at least for the last five years.

What are we doing? Is this love? Is this fluttering in my belly the real thing or just a physical reaction to a hot guy who is all muscle? Is Jag my boyfriend? I can’t picture being this way—lying in someone’s arms, fantasizing about the taste of their lips—with someone who isn’t. What if I let myself really give in, and he breaks my heart? Is that a chance I should take?

I inhale, memorizing this moment in case it never happens again. He smells male, earthy, and not at all unpleasant. I hope I smell as nice, although I doubt it, and I can’t get it out of my head that the odor of my sweaty armpits is wafting into his nostrils as he inhales, his chin next to my shoulder. But if he doesn’t mind my stench and I don’t mind his, then why worry? I let the tension go, release my doubts, and let my muscles go flaccid.

I relax… finally.

Brecken

I stand before my wall of windows, my chest bare and the moon glowing down on me, but I feel no magic from the slanting moonbeams. Only the cold, slashing truth. I have been here almost two weeks—yet it feels like so much longer—and I’m still not part of the Cazadors. I have failed in my mission to win over the demon hunters, and now they’ve lost an important member under my watch. So much for becoming a part of their group.

It takes all the self-control I have to leave Heidi at the church with Jag rather than drag her home with me. She is grown up now, and I can’t tell her what to do. If she wants to stay with a guy who’s sneering and snarky, who only knows how to kill, how can I convince her otherwise? Jag won’t try anything with her anyway. He probably won’t wake up until morning.

I debate what to do now. Everything is falling apart. I’m sure Michael, the formidable archangel and leader of heaven’s armies, is laughing at the debacle I’ve made of my mission. If it weren’t so tragic, I’d be laughing too, but too much rests on my shoulders. I have to get to
The Door to Hell
in Turkmenistan, whether I have a team at my back or not.
The Door
has been burning for a long time, but the Rift did something. It opened it wider somehow.

Running a hand through my hair in frustration, I stomp back to my bed and yank a duffle bag out from under it. I throw in some clothes and every weapon I own. When I’m finished, I look around at my new, awesome apartment that I’ve hardly lived in and will never live in again. An ache grows in the pit of my stomach, knowing I’ll never be back, will never see Heidi or argue with her about who gets to shower first.

In the kitchen, I grab a box of granola bars—the kind Heidi likes—and then count my money. I have enough and plenty more for the job I’m about to do. Silently, I thank my heavenly benefactors and then leave my apartment, locking it behind me.

Four flights of stairs give me plenty of time to debate if I should tell Heidi I’m leaving or not. I don’t want a scene and am tempted to just disappear like a phantom, but after the way I left last time…

Jogging, my shoes squeak on the warm asphalt as I make my way to the church. My pulse quickens the closer I get. The church stands alone at the end of the street, a silent sentinel, dark, with its one spire stretching upward like a spike rather than a steeple. Creepy rather than comforting.

At the door, I knock tentatively, hoping to only wake Heidi. It takes a few minutes, and then the door slowly opens, Heidi’s eyes are wide and searching. Afraid or just startled? Surely, she knows it’s only me or another Cazador. Who else would knock at an abandoned church so late at night?

“Brecken!” She exhales in relief, opening the door wider. “You have no idea how much you scared me! Never do that again!” Her laughter bounces around in my chest like bubbles, and I welcome it.

As I step inside, I know it will be the last time. The heaviness continues to grow inside me. I shake my head, wishing it could be different. Does she even notice she called me Brecken? “I came to say goodbye.”

“What?”

“I have to go. I need to finish this mission I was assigned. I have to close
The Door to Hell.
I really wish I could stay and find Dean, but it’s almost too late as it is. Too many demons are coming through, and I can’t keep… trying to fit in.”

She frowns at me, her mouth working in disbelief, her dimples deepening. She’s so beautiful, so talented and smart. She deserves a chance at happiness, to get married, to have a family. If I don’t close
The Door
, she’ll never have that.

I glance intermittently between her and the floor, knowing I’m making a terrible choice… but the correct one. “I’m really sorry.” It sounds stupid and won’t fix anything, but I have to say it. I need her to know.

“But… you just barely came back.”

“I know.” The words escape as a whisper. No one is sorrier than I am. I hate to leave, but a pressure builds in my chest and my mind screams that I need to do this or it
will
be too late.

“We’ll come with you,” I hear from the stairway.

Jag leans against the doorjamb of the stairwell, his hair a mess of tangles, his black eye shining like a dark monster, the bruise taking up most of his face. I’m stunned at how terrible he looks. I appreciate his offer, but he has no idea what he’s saying or how far I have to go.

“I’m going to the Middle East.” I state it as clearly and precisely as I can, keeping my emotions out of it. This is harder than I imagined. I don’t want to say goodbye again. It’s too soon.

“That’s okay. I have money,” Jag says. “Dean would want us to help you finish this. We’ll do it for him.”

“We do it for everybody,” I say.

“You have money?” Heidi asks in astonishment, still stuck on that point. She turns to stare at him. Actually, we both stare at him. If he has money, why would he continue to live in this dive?

“Yeah. I do. Saved. Hidden for a rainy day. It’s raining cats and dogs out there now. Can’t you hear it on the roof?” he jokes without a smile. There’s nothing funny happening, and we all know it. “I have enough for Heidi and me anyway.”

“I can pay for Heidi,” I say quickly. I could pay for all the Cazadors, actually, but I hold off to see where this conversation will go. This will be dangerous work. More dangerous than anything I’ve ever faced before, and I’m not sure I want them to go with me. A handful of kids will be nothing against a horde of demons. I don’t know what Michael and Raphael were thinking. Kids can’t do this. There’s no way they can go up against the forces of hell. Four kids against thousands?

“If all the tickets cost the same, what difference does it make who pays for who?” Jag smirks. He has me there, but for some reason, my human emotions—even though I’m not sure if I am totally human—take over, and I want to pay for Heidi’s ticket myself. She’s
my
sister.
My
responsibility. Not Jag’s.

“I guess it doesn’t.” It was a mistake coming here. I curse to myself and force my mouth to relax. I’m gritting my teeth, and it’s starting to make my jaw ache. I can’t let them come with me. It’s just too dangerous. Even though it felt good, knowing for a moment that I wouldn’t have to do this alone, I feel like maybe I need to.

“Give us an hour at least. I need to get ahold of Doug and Owen.” Jag is resolute and nods as though it’s been written in stone.

And then Heidi asks the question that is on all our minds. “What about Dean?” She addresses Jag, who has already turned away, his jaw clenched and tight. “We can’t just leave him.”

“He’s dead,” he answers, still facing away, his voice soft and filled with ache. “We all know it. There’s no way they’d keep him alive. It’s not how they work.”

“Is this true?” she cries, reaching for me for confirmation, as though I would know.

All I can do is shake my head in ignorance. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Can’t you find out? They’ll tell you, right? Whoever’s in charge?” she pleads with me, holding my hands for good measure. She believes I’ve been sent here by God. By all standards, I should be able to communicate with Him. She has so much faith in me. More than I have in myself. I don’t know what to say. Technically, I
can
call for assistance or information, but I’ve never felt comfortable praying to the God I betrayed so many times in the past. I’m not sure where I stand with Him… but I can talk to Raphael. “I can try.”

She hugs me fiercely and then runs out the door. “I’m going to pack. Don’t leave without me!” The front door slams behind her and I am alone with Jag, who looks at me with those dark eyes that deepen into unfathomable depths.

“I think you’re full of crap.” Jag stares me down as if we’re at the OK Corral. “But I’m going along with this… for now… for Heidi. So you better not be leading us into a trap because if that’s what it turns out to be, you’re gonna wish you’d never met me.” He turns and bounds down the stairs.

I walk over to the fire pit to sit on one of the pews, determined to keep my promise to Heidi. Dust has accumulated on the benches since we were all here last, eating pizza and laughing. Darkness shrouds this end of the church, so close to the pulpit, but I’m not afraid of the dark. It welcomes me as though I am a long-lost son of perdition, which maybe I am.

Clasping my hands together, I close my eyes and clear my throat, but rather than speak out loud, I decide to pray in my mind. Raphael will hear me either way.

Okay, so Raph? I need to talk to you. Are you there? Are you listening
? I sit for a moment, waiting for something profound to happen or for the angel to appear. He doesn’t. Big surprise.
Um, Raphael? I need your help.

Nothing.

With a sigh, I try a different tactic.
Damn it, Raphael. Talk to me!
My fist pounds on my knee and my teeth grit painfully. Screaming in my mind feels less powerful than using my outside voice, but the results are the same.

A vast silence.

And then…
You are making the right choice. Go to The Door to Hell.

That’s all I get. Short. Simple. Nothing about Dean and nothing about the Cazadors. But chances are, if they go with me, they’ll never come home. With my teeth clenching and my heart pounding, I rise and stride over to the door. Taking one last glance around, I say a silent goodbye and slip away.

***

Despite the fact that technology is at a near standstill, some airports are still working, but only in the big cities, and no flights fly to Turkmenistan. Iran is the closest I’ll get. That’s fine. It’s right next door… except for all that distance in between where bands of roaming thugs live. I’ll have plenty of time to find trouble.

Standing at the counter, I pay for my ticket—which is handwritten—and then shoulder my bag. Not many people are here. Not many people have money to fly. Airports don’t even bother to use x-ray machines anymore. Why would they? With all the worldwide catastrophes, governments don’t concern themselves with global terrorism. Only surviving.

Shaking my head, I walk the long, almost deserted hallway. The carpets are dusty and worn. I search for loading zone B18, where my flight for New York will board… if enough people show up. The wait might be one hour or twelve. You never know. I might be the last one they’re waiting for. From New York, it’s a straight shot to Spain, where I’ll do the whole waiting game again. Then on to the Middle East. I am so
not
excited.

I take a seat in the waiting area, my fingers drumming,
Carry on My Wayward Son
. It’s fitting, and it’s also one of my favorites. Quite a few people are already waiting, and I count myself lucky… or blessed. How many do they need before they’ll take off? I count at least twenty travelers besides myself.

The minutes tick by and my anxiety rises. Not just because my sister could show up and ruin my sneaky escape, but because I hate flying. It’s irrational and I know it, but it’s my only human weakness. Out of a body, I’m fine. No fears. No problems. But flying? Strap me into a straightjacket and Xanax me for the long haul. I’ve always been this way.

There are plenty of passengers waiting, so what is taking them so long to call our flight? Airlines don’t use large airplanes anymore. They cost too much with not enough people flying to fill them up these days.

We need to get going!

Thirty minutes later, I’m walking down the narrow aisle of the plane with about forty others. It’s a fifty seater. Way smaller than feels safe. I stow my bag above my seat and sit down next to the window to gaze out over the tarmac.

The sun will rise any minute and heatwaves will shimmer on the asphalt. Soon, I will be thirty thousand feet in the air in this piece of tin. Even though I understand physics, I still can’t believe this metal coffin can fly.

Not two minutes go by before I get that strange feeling—that sticky prickle on the back of my neck, screaming that someone’s gaze is boring a hole through my back. Turning, I’m met with the angry glares of Heidi, Owen, Doug, and Jag. Heidi’s hands are on her hips, her eyes spitting fire… or maybe daggers. Either way, I’m dead. The others push their packs into the overhead bins above their seats, but Heidi is only getting started.

“How dare you leave us?” she yells, oblivious to the other passengers. “Why did you even come to say goodbye if this was what you were going to do? You knew we’d follow, right? What game are you playing? You’re such a damned idiot!” Her voice rises to a deafening pitch, and everyone avoids eye contact with us both.

“Geez, Heidi. Tone it down.” I glance at the other passengers and lower my voice also. “You do realize, if you come with me, you’re never coming back. None of you. This is a one-way ticket. I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you and having it be my fault. I don’t want you guys to come.
Please
, go home.”

Jag plops down in the seat across the aisle. “Too late, jack-nit, and I think we’re all aware of the odds. Plus, we’ve already paid for our tickets. We’re not here for you. We’re here for Dean. Don’t think for a minute I care about you.”

Heidi throws her bag above my head and slams the bin shut. The set of her jaw declares I will not be spoken to for the rest of the trip. Not necessarily a bad thing.