The Undoer (20 page)

Brecken

By four in the morning, I’ve ripped the plastic down, opting for quiet rather than protection from the elements. I’ve hardly slept, and I feel like the walking dead. Soon, my mood will need a massive overhaul. Maybe breakfast will help, but I doubt it, knowing I’ll most likely have to eat with Jag, who’s plotting my demise.

I rise by seven and pack all of my things, not planning on wasting another night here in the city. Shouldering my bag, I head down the hall to Owen’s door. After knocking, I shove my hands into my pockets to keep from fidgeting while I wait. It takes a few minutes for him to open the door, and when it opens, it’s only Heidi in the room.

“Where are the boys?” I look around, suddenly filled with relief—she didn’t sleep in Jag’s room. But if the boy’s aren’t here, I’ll have to search for everyone individually just so we can get out of here.

“They already went down to eat.” She gives me a tired sigh, and I take in her hair, which is a mess, her pajamas—a gray tank top and plain pajama bottoms, men’s, with a fly. Typical. She hasn’t changed much.

I sit down on one of the beds, watching her gather up clothes and head into the bathroom. “I don’t want to stay in Tehran all day. We need to find a car.”

“Okay,” I hear from the bathroom.

“It’s going to be dangerous from here on out. There are tons of demons here, and it will only get worse the closer we get to
The Door
.”

“There were a ton in L.A. too,” she answers.

“Not like here. Just wait. It’s going to get rough. We need to stay as incognito as possible. They surely know we’re here by now, which means we can expect all hell to break loose. Literally.” I pull a thread on the quilt. It undoes the entire seam.

When she exits the bathroom, there’s a black hijab covering her head. She could almost pass for Middle Eastern except for the bright blue eyes. As blue as mine.

I motion to the shawl. “You look awesome. Glad you thought of it.”

“Jag did.”

He’s smarter than I give him credit for, but I don’t admit that out loud. A lot has changed in the world, but culture hasn’t. Women in the Middle East still need to be covered up, and with all the devastation in the last five years, it has only gotten worse as people try to hold onto what is familiar.

Heidi grabs her bag, and we shut the door behind us. Doug and Owen are in the cafeteria eating dates, cheese, and some kind of grilled meat. I pick up a date, letting its sweetness explode in my mouth. When I plop down on the bench seat, Heidi slides in next to me. We order a bit more and wait for Jag.

“Do you know where he is?” I ask Doug, who sits right across from me.

“Yeah, I saw him leave.”

“Leave? The hotel?”

Owen nods, his mouth full. “Yeah. About a half hour ago. Said he was going to look around.”

This is just the kind of thing I wanted to avoid. Did he even bother to let me know where he was going?
No
. Is he safe here, where he doesn’t know anyone?
No
. I try not to let it darken my mood further, but I feel a familiar emotion simmering deep in my belly. Jag would rather sacrifice our safety than be controlled. I keep my thoughts to myself, the grit of my teeth the only thing that declares outwardly how I feel.

“He’ll be back,” Heidi says. “He knows we’re leaving early.”

I don’t bother to answer, because it will only turn into an argument, which is no way to start the day. The conversation turns to the weather, which is already sweltering and it’s only eight-thirty in the morning.

“I don’t know if I can stand this scarf all day.” Heidi adjusts how low it sits on her forehead, loosening the neck. She’s wearing a long-sleeved, white cotton blouse. It’s the coolest material here—everyone wears it—but I doubt it’s as comfortable as her usual tank tops.

The rest of us are dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Men have a lot more freedom here. We just can’t wear shorts. Owen wears a baseball cap, and with that, we look pretty American.

It isn’t long before I feel the energy in the room shift, growing sharp and intense, hotter, if that is possible. I glance up and notice two guys staring malevolently at us from across the restaurant. Within moments of catching my eye, they stand up and walk directly to our table. They aren’t waiters and their scowls remain fixed as they stride over.

“Can we help you?” I ask when they stop next to our table, glaring down at us. I kick myself for not sitting on the outside edge of the booth. I grab Heidi’s hand under the table, hoping she’ll keep her eyes down and stay quiet.

“You aren’t welcome here,” the guy on the right growls. He’s tall with a black goatee, wearing black slacks and a black, long-sleeved button-down shirt. Fierce is the only word I can think of to describe him. He’s also sporting a shiny new gray man inside and is probably unaware of our unique abilities, but he might sense something different about me. Most demons do… and some demon hunters. He’s probably newly arrived. Most seasoned demons don’t pick a fight unless they
know
they’ll win, but they’re also pretty arrogant, so I’m not surprised.

“We’ll be on our way in a moment.” I hold his gaze. Heidi keeps her eyes on her plate, but I see her hand slide to the dagger in her belt. I nudge her leg.

“Dude, we’re almost done,” Doug says, scowling up at the guy. He doesn’t seem the least bit afraid, but I’m sure he sees the gray man as well as I do.

“I think you should leave…
now
,” the second guy says to us, his tone polite and calm. He waits next to his friend, not quite as tall, with softer features. Also wearing black. His long hair is tied at the nape of his neck. He watches only me, conveying something deeper in his gaze, as though he knows exactly who and what I am.

I’m not sure if the others pick up on it, but his message is clear. He doesn’t want problems and if we leave now, there won’t be any. People are beginning to stare.

Slowly, as though the ticking of the clock has stretched and lengthened, Heidi raises her eyes, glowering straight into the eyes of the tall, angry man. “We’re still eating.”

The guy looks down to see the tip of her dagger pressed against his belly, just above his belt. She adds pressure, and it digs in a little deeper. His eyes narrow and the muscles in his jaw flex, but he doesn’t step back.

“I don’t think you want to bother us at all,” she says. “I think you want to walk away and mind your own business.” She smiles, but it isn’t friendly, and I couldn’t be prouder or more mortified.

Polite Guy raises one eyebrow, but he seems completely unperturbed. “May I ask who you are and where you’re from?” He directs his comment to Heidi now, clearly fascinated.

“We’re from your worst nightmare,” Jag whispers into the guy’s ear from behind. He snuck up so silently that I didn’t notice him until the last second. I catch a glimpse of the edge of his dagger pressed to the demon’s side. “And if you don’t want trouble, I suggest you walk away, and make it fast, because I’m dying to see some demon dust.” Jag’s lips pull back into a feral grin, like a wolf… or a jaguar.

“Ah. I see. I bid you good day then,” Nice Guy says. “I’ll be seeing you.” He directs this last comment to me, nodding, and then backing away, Jag giving him room. Angry Guy seems torn. He doesn’t want to bow down or lose face. He’s itching for a fight, but this is not the place, and Polite Guy presses a hand to his arm. They back up until they are far enough away to turn and scurry out of the cafeteria.

“Whew! That was close!” Doug exhales a tension-filled laugh, his eyes wide. “I thought for sure we were going to have to take them down right here.” He glances back over his shoulder at the door.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Heidi mumbles as she pushes her food around with a fork. “I had it covered. You didn’t need to swoop in and save the day,” she says to Jag, who’s still standing next to the table, mainly watching her eat. There isn’t room for him to sit, but since we’re all pretty much done, our appetites ruined…

“That’s not what I was doing,” he says, an expression of dismay flitting across his face. “I saw them threatening you guys, and I just did what I always do.”

“Yep. Take over,” I say, without thinking.

I wait for a caustic remark, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he says, “Whatever,” and turns and walks away. Owen takes a breath as though he’s about to contribute, but Doug nudges him and his mouth snaps shut.

There’s nothing left to do here, so we all slide out of the booth and pay for our meal with newly traded money. Just outside the restaurant is the concierge desk. The same guy who was there last night is there this morning. He looks absolutely delighted to see us with his grim expression and hooded eyes.

“I’d like to rent a car.” I try to look as non-threatening as possible, but after our run-in at the restaurant, my nerves are running high. Not to mention my lack of sleep. I’m ready to snap, but I hold it in. I’ve gotten good at holding things in.

He nods and opens a notebook, searching through the entries. “I’m sorry, sir. We have nothing available.” He glances up and gives me a Machiavellian grin. A smile that says he can’t wait for us to leave.

“Really?” Jag asks, pushing forward. “Because I was just walking past your rental hub, and I saw a bunch of old jalopies out there.” He stares at the man with the arrogance that only he can pull off, and I’m tempted to say “down boy.” I wish he’d just shut up and let me handle it. His interference is starting to drive me crazy. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my mouth shut just to avoid an argument.

The concierge never loses his smile. “Let me check again. I could have missed something.” He takes a moment to look through his notebook, pretending to actually read the listings. “Ah, yes. Here’s one.” He jots my name down and calls a young boy over to take us to our car. “And here are your keys.”

The boy leads us outside to a parking garage where a section has been roped off and designated for their rentals. The cars all look like they’re ready for the scrap yard. None look completely dependable. He leads us to an old Jeep 4x4 that actually looks better than the rest. It’s a five seater and has room in the back for our stuff. I’m relieved and hope it gets us where we need to go. We just might make it.

We pile in and quickly learn that the air conditioning doesn’t work. There is only one radio station. It’s staticky and in Farsi.

Heidi shuts it off with a smile. “We don’t need the radio,” she says. “The boys can sing.” She winks at Doug and Owen in the visor mirror as she adjusts her scarf and hair.

Jag sits right behind her. His hand is stretched forward, resting on her shoulder. He smiles at me as if he’s daring me to say something. I don’t give him the satisfaction and act like I never noticed at all.

We drive through narrow streets with all sorts of maniacs weaving their little cars in and out of traffic. There are no rules, and no one to enforce them if there were anyway. The few police I’ve seen don’t seem to care.

Heidi shrieks as I hit the brakes, narrowly missing an elderly man who shakes his fist at my stupidity, as though it was my fault he walked right in front of us on a green light! Slowly, we make our way out of town and into the country where the roads are mostly straight, black, and hot. All around us, the region is wide open, making us easy targets. I felt safer in the city. These dusty hills provide too much cover for demons and gangs.

The afternoon wanes, and we stop at a little vegetable booth on the side of the road. Local farmers are selling their wares. Off to one side, an elderly woman is selling rice with some sort of meat in it. I don’t ask what it is because it smells heavenly, especially with my stomach growling. I buy a plate for each of us.

We sit on the side of the road in the blazing sun, shoveling hot rice and meat sauce into our mouths, and I have to ask myself, could this be more ridiculous? We’re cooking ourselves from the inside out.

Dean

I sit in one of the nicest restaurants in downtown L.A. The Mozza. A posh Italian joint. I’ve never been here before, let alone in this part of town… in a suit. We have the whole place to ourselves because, yeah, Coem has contracted it for the next two hours. Guards are posted at every door. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s afraid the Cazadors might find him or that I might try to escape.

That thought has crossed my mind, but at the moment, I’m eating spaghetti and meatballs. Actual spaghetti and meatballs, which I haven’t had since the beginning of the Rift. I can’t normally afford food like this. There’s a salad on the side and the promise of dessert. I’m about to die of happiness.

I should refuse this pampering, but I’m so hungry and I’ve been starved for so long, I don’t say no. The advantages of playing Coem’s game far outweigh refusing. I’ll bide my time, gaining strength in every opportunity I can.

“Are you enjoying your food?” He’s relaxed, his fingers intertwined over his stomach as he watches me devour my ambrosia.

“Yeah. You should try it.” I slurp another huge forkful, feeling like this might be my last meal so I better enjoy it.

“I just might.” He gives me a lazy smile and takes intermittent sips from a glass of red wine that sits before him. He’s quiet for a moment, and then he inhales audibly before speaking. “I want to thank you again for the amazing painting. I have it hanging in my home in Gehenna. Everyone is jealous and clamoring for their own portrait. This could be lucrative for both you and me.”

I nod, but I keep eating. I have no interest in making money from demons, but I’m surprised he’s never had a picture drawn before. After all, he comes across as pretty vain, but my painting was a surprise, like he was shocked at never having thought of it himself. Idiot.

Abruptly, a strange feeling of queasiness begins to grow in my stomach. It builds, the roiling expanding, until I realize too late that I can’t hold the nausea back. I’ve eaten too fast. A second later, my belly cramps painfully and the hot, acidic taste of bile fills my mouth. There’s no way I can keep my lips closed even though I try. My stomach heaves, and all the food I’d been shoveling into my starved innards comes exploding back out… onto the table. I can’t even control it. I continue to retch even when there’s no food left in my stomach. When it’s over, spittle drips from my lip and I wipe it away with horror and mortification. I can’t believe this happened. I look up slowly, terrified to meet Coem’s eyes.

His reaction is split second. He jumps up from the table and stares in disgust. Wiping off his suit, he closes his eyes, his jaw flexing. I watch him, shrinking back from certain death. Instead, he sighs and motions for the waiter to clean up the mess, and then he sits back down to the vomit-strewn table.

“I’m so sorry. This rich food was too much. You may not believe it, but I feel terrible at how you were treated, and I want to make it up to you.” He waits for me to look up again before continuing.

He’s right. I don’t believe it. He acts as if he weren’t the one in
charge
of my mistreatment. Like he didn’t know what was happening? It’s difficult to hide my sneer—because I totally hate this guy and I think I
could
actually kill him. I’m sure Coem notices my expression.

I stare at the breadsticks, the smell of garlic and tomatoes almost more than I can handle, and I moan, holding my stomach, feeling feel like I might puke again. I have to get away from this table. Why are we still sitting here?

“Have you traveled much?” he asks out of the blue.

Shaking my head, I snort. “Yeah. With my millions, I’ve been all over the world.” I use a clean corner of my napkin to wipe my mouth, sensing my stomach is about to cramp again.

Coem doesn’t respond to my snarkiness, but he nods. “That’s what I figured. How would you like to see the world? Eat the best food every country can offer? See the pyramids!”

“No thanks.”

“I think you might change your mind when you see what I have in mind.”

I place my napkin on the table, staring into those beautiful cobalt-blue eyes that aren’t really even his. “I think you misunderstand me. I can’t be bought.”

“You’ve already been bought. Look at your clothes. You’re clean… well, you
were
. You’re eating food you’ve only dreamed of for the last five years and you didn’t say no to any of it.”

“I puked it back up.” But he’s right, and for that, his words stab like a hot needle, straight into my heart.

“How about this? We go back to my home. No more dungeons or dark nights alone in a cold cell. You’ll still be guarded because I don’t want to lose you just yet, but you’ll be able to live in comfort and paint. I have a friend who would like her portrait done. You’ll be paid in food and clothes, so you won’t feel like you’re working for free.” His smile is tight and never reaches his eyes. He folds his hands over his stomach again and waits.

What do I say? His offer is hard to resist. The thought of going back to my cell where the stench is overpowering, sleeping on a cot filled with bedbugs and who knows what else is devastating. And having to pee in that disgusting corner… it makes me want die… and yet I feel like I’m selling myself if I accept his proposal.

How many times will I compromise? How many times before it’s too late and I’m really theirs? Heart and soul? I stare at my hands in my lap, my stomach still churning and achy. When I shake my head, my tongue feels like cotton in my mouth. It’s difficult to breathe or swallow, and everything inside me screams to shoot down his evil proposition—that he has nothing I want.

But I can’t force the words from my mouth. I can’t make myself say I want the loneliness of a stark prison cell, little to no food, and foul-smelling darkness. Slowly, I lift my eyes to his and give him a nod. That’s it. And then I go back to staring at my hands.

Within minutes, I am whisked away in a plush, black limo and transported to a gated mansion in the distance. The black gates slide open and the limo pulls through. Trees and other greenery line the drive, and flowers in all colors bloom in the gardens. It takes my breath away.

It’s an artist’s dream, and I can’t believe a demon would even want to live here. I picture them skulking around, hiding in darkness, the ugliness of their surroundings matching the ugliness in their hearts.

Not so for Coem.

A butler opens my door, and I step from the car to walk up the stone steps into a foyer of marble. A huge chandelier hangs overhead, reflecting rainbows of light into the mirrors and other crystal ornaments. There is nothing in this house or on this property that would suggest any type of
Rift
has occurred.

I walk to a marble table that holds a giant stone flowerpot with magnificent flowers. I can’t believe what I’m seeing, and I turn to stare at my surroundings. How can these pigs live like this when so many people are starving and alone, shivering in the night, hiding from the vampiric demons that snatch their bodies away, only to consume them before their time should even be up?

“Right this way, sir,” the butler says to me. He walks up a set of gold-carpeted stairs with gilded railings, the best money can buy—without looking back. He just assumes I’ll follow, which I do. Turning down a hall, he opens the third door on the left and shows me in.

A king-sized bed sits against one wall, wine-colored satin quilts decorating the mattress. There’s a fireplace on one side and tall, bright windows that allow golden light to filter in. It’s a room for a king and now it’s mine. There’s an armoire in the corner and I walk over to it, flinging open the doors.

“All to your taste, I assume.” Coem leans against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. He gestures to the rack of clothes hanging in the closet. Name-brand jeans, brightly colored, button-down shirts—the kind I love—T-shirts, and two rows of shoes. More clothes than I had even before the Rift.

I have no words. A part of me wants to scream for joy and throw myself on the bed that I know is going to be plush and warm, because I have never seen such lavishness in my life. It’s seductive on so many levels. But another part of me screams that this is a trap and that I must run from this room! That Coem is binding me with chains that will drag me down to hell.

“Come. Let me show you your studio.” Swirling out of the room in a graceful pivot, he walks three doors down, shoving open the door in a flourish. He stands back, proud and excited, and ushers me in with enthusiasm. Even though I’ve walked hesitantly down the hall, his eager smile says this room will be even better than my bedroom. That’s what I’m afraid of—that the temptation of something even better will be impossible to refuse.

And he’s right. Windows line one whole wall, pristine and crystal clear. Easels of various sizes stand in a corner. On the other side of the room is a kitchenette with cupboards and shelves full of paints of all brands, colors, and types. Watercolors, oils, acrylics. Brushes of all sizes, canvases for every medium… everything an artist could dream of and then some.

“Well, what do you think?” He steps to the center of the room, his arms outstretched as he spins in a slow circle.

I’m still not able to form words.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

I nod, turning in a slow circle myself. “Why?” I whisper, still unable to grasp it all. “Why are you doing this? I know you don’t like me.”

“Oh, contraire, my friend! I
do
like you. You are not the first human I have taken a liking to either, and I take care of my friends. I want to nurture your talent.” He walks up to me, a genuine smile in his eyes. That’s a first. He places his hands on the tops of my shoulders. “Someday, you are going to be famous and I’ll be able to say I knew him when.” And with that, he walks back to the door. “I’m going to let you rest before my friends come. Say, a couple of hours?”

I nod, feeling extraordinarily confused. I don’t understand any of this. Why is he really doing this? Nurture my talent? No way. He wants something from me, so I’ll play along for a while until I figure this out. Really, this is awesome, and maybe there is some way I can get a message to Jag while I’m here. I’ll think of something. This house can’t be that secure.

Did he say friends? With an S?