The Undoer (21 page)

Dean

One of Coem’s “friends” sits on a chair next to my easel in a flowing emerald gown, her golden hair cascading over one shoulder. Her demon eyes burn with fire, like the afternoon sun shining through the wall of windows, which creates a halo of light around her.

There’s no smile on her lips, but she wears a look of self-assurance and satisfaction. She knows she’s magnificent. At least on the outside.

I can easily see who she really is on the inside.
Not
a gray man. So many of the top dogs here aren’t, but she’s something… else. Her demon skin is pasty white. Her hair is long and gray, slicked back over her head between two short, black horns that spiral back. Her blood-red demon lips are a mirage behind her human ones, smiling seductively.

I’ve gotten good at perceiving the details of their true selves. Colors, tones, and depth. At first, it took focus, and I had to stare hard, but now—ever since my torture in that underground auditorium—it’s easy. I see them both. The human body and the demon body as though they are sitting side by side.

Coem calls her Chumlento. A stupid name if you ask me. She wants me to paint her inner demon self—like I did with Coem, but with the emerald dress on. Her demon body doesn’t have any “girl” parts like her human one—no breasts or curves whatsoever. Just leathery, gray skin. Only the contours of her demon face—the high, slim cheekbones, delicate chin, and wide, fiery eyes—make her look female. I try not to look her directly as it gives me the creeps. I swear she can read my thoughts.

She reclines like a cat, sinewy and relaxed, her long, human limbs muscled and beautiful. “They call you Dan?” she purrs, leaning forward, the V in her neckline showing more of her human cleavage than I’m comfortable with. I keep my eyes on the canvas.

“It’s Dean.”

She shrugs as though she couldn’t care less. “And what is the meaning of such a name?”

Rather than snub her or give a snide remark—because I’ve learned that only gets my face slapped—I shrug also. “I don’t know. Probably nothing.”

“What kind of human doesn’t know the meaning of their name?” She peers at me closely as thought trying to understand me. “Names are important. They always mean something. Your name opens a window into your soul, and I’d like to know who’s painting my portrait.”

I shake my head, wishing she’d just shut up. Who cares anyway? “Well, I had a plaque on my wall when I was a kid that said my name means
the way of life
.”

“In what language?”

I shrug again. “How should I know? That was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” In a flash, she sits up straight, the flirtatiousness of the conversation coming to an abrupt halt. I flinch, thinking she might hit me, but instead, she stalks from the studio without any semblance of grace. I watch her retreating back, the gown dipping low, showing the soft curve of her buttocks. The attractive, human one.

Once gone, I stare at the empty doorway. Maybe she’s upset I didn’t ask the meaning of her name too.

***

I sit in a chair directly across from Coem. He scowls at me, his face uncomfortably close to mine. He hasn’t said anything yet, but I’m sure I’m in trouble. At least he hasn’t kicked me out of his house yet. I haven’t even been here for twenty-four hours. I still have plenty of fattening up to do.

“What is your religion?” he asks, his expression intense and searching.

“Huh?”

“What is your religion!” he screams, suddenly furious for no reason, spittle flying from his lips.

Startled, I jerk back. “I don’t have one. What difference does it make?”

He calms down and takes a couple of deep breathes, relaxing back in his seat. “It’s important. What religion? Are you Christian? Jewish? Muslim?”

I wrack my brain to figure out his line of questioning. “Uh, I guess Christian.”

“Were you christened as a baby? Baptized maybe?”

“I don’t remember if I was ever christened. I only have vague memories of ever going to church.” I frown back at him, growing worried. Who cares what my religion is now?

“Were your parents Catholic? Protestant? Baptist? Which Christian sect? What is your genealogy? Where do your people come from?” He’s back to leaning forward in my face. The intensity of his gaze demands an answer and I try to think back—in my fear and bewilderment—to any stories my parents may have told me as a child. Were we European?

“Uh, I’m not sure. Maybe English or Scottish.”

“Any Middle Eastern blood by chance?” Chumlento asks from the door. She has changed from her gown to a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a form-fitting white sweater.

“Uh…”

“As in Jewish, Arabic, Turkish etc…”

“I don’t know.” I look from her to Coem and then back at her. I’m so lost I can’t even begin to decipher their line of questioning.

She sighs and throws her arms down, stalking over to us. Once she’s standing next to Coem, she cocks her hip and places her hand on her waist. “He’s an idiot. You’ll learn nothing from him. Just take a blood test. You have people under your thumb who can analyze blood, don’t you?”

I don’t know anyone else who can talk to him as she does, like she has no fear of him. Everyone else grovels in his presence. But Chumlento, she’s an empress as soon as she enters any room. Everyone bows to her. Even Coem… kind of.

“True.” He sits back and threads his fingers together, a smile growing on his face. “Good idea. Very good.” He turns to me. “We are finding that certain races are easier to possess than others. Certain names offer protection, depending on the religious rites you’ve experienced. Genealogy also matters. It’s all very interesting stuff.” He snaps his fingers, and the guard who’s been waiting outside the door comes in. “Take the boy to the lab and have them test for ethnicity.”

I rise from my chair as the guard approaches. No sense having my arm ripped from its socket. He takes me to the end of the hall where an elevator is open and waiting for us. Nothing good can come of this, and I almost scream,
hell no, I won’t go!
But I force myself to walk into the elevator anyway. They won’t kill me yet. Not until they figure me out or give up on trying.

When the elevator doors open again, we’re three floors down, in a stainless steel, sterile medical lab. All sorts of equipment is spread out on tables, and at least five guys in lab coats are busy working.

“Coem wants blood drawn,” the guard says, gesturing to me.

“What is he looking for?” one of the tech guys asks, walking toward us.

“Ethnicity.”

The technician nods and leads me over to a corner where a chair sits with a tray of needles and vials for this sort of thing. How often are they drawing people’s blood down here? What are they up to? What are they studying? And then it hits me with sickening clarity. They are studying humans. Like lab rats. Trying to figure out what makes us tick and probably how to keep our bodies working longer. I’m kind of curious about it myself. Will they figure out what makes me different? Is it in my blood or in my soul, or maybe even a mixture of the two, this resistance to the demons?

My stomach turns, and I feel bile rise in my throat. I swallow, refusing to throw up in front of these people… again. I hate needles… and blood. I turn away, not able to watch.

“Okay. We’re finished,” the technician says after a few moments. “You’re good to go. And don’t forget to stop by the kitchen for orange juice.” He smiles, pulls off his rubber gloves, and spins on his stool to throw them away. The thing that really gets me here is that the guy is human. No demon inside. He doesn’t act like a prisoner, which can only mean one thing. He’s here of his own volition. Paid to do whatever Coem wants. Traitor.

I glance over and notice three vials of dark red blood, lying on a metal tray. My blood. My magic blood that keeps the demons out. I love that blood and completely rebel at having them steal it from me.

The guard leads me away, and I can’t help but wonder if they will ever let me go.

***

Life in the mansion is an amazing experience compared to living in my little church. I’m never cold, never hungry, and I wear only the most expensive clothes money can buy. Truth be told, I can’t stand the feeling I have inside, like I’ve converted to the dark side by agreeing to all of this. I should be fighting back more. I should refuse their gifts and manipulations, but I don’t. I can’t. After going without for so long, it feels good to have a full stomach every night. I keep telling myself that I’ll figure out a way to hurt them from the inside, but I’ve yet to come up with any ideas.

I sit at the easel with the painting of Chumlento before me, almost complete. I’m just doing a few touchups. Thoughts of our conversation come back to me, her smug stance and even smugger comments. I picture her condescending smile as she sneers at me, as if I’m a bug she’d like to step on. I hate her. And without thinking, I grit my teeth and smudge the paint on her right eye with my fist, giving it an ugly, sagging slant. The colors smear from a bright, flaming, golden fire to puce-ugly orange. Grotesque, like she is.

The impotence I feel is somewhat assuaged by my rebellious rant and I sit back, not wanting to paint anymore. It’s early, and breakfast will be served any minute. I stand up, wipe my hands on a towel, and head toward the door. My heart beats erratically, knowing I’ll be sitting with the king and queen of hell—how I refer to them—in only a few minutes.

My guard waits outside the door. There is something about him that gives me the chills. Literally. He’s a gray man, but he’s
cold
. Where he touches me, I feel frostbit for a moment. It’s crazy, and I have no explanation for it. Should he be able to do that in a human body?

The door swings open before I can open it myself. The guard stands there, staring me down, neither of us saying a word. I blink and look away. He wins.

I dart forward before he can touch me. “So, what’s your name anyway?” I ask, figuring I might as well get to know him. He doesn’t answer; he just keeps walking. I glance over at him, and he’s staring straight ahead. Okay, so he doesn’t want to be friends.

When we reach the dining room, I’m motioned to the other side of the table to sit next to Coem. Chumlento is already seated directly across from him. I initiate a smile as I sit, but then freeze when I notice her face. Her right eye sags and the hue of her iris is a muted, sickly green color.
Puce
green.

My jaw sags, and she notices me staring. She growls, looking like she might reach across the table and smack me. I hurry to glance away and sit down.

Coem clears his throat and wipes his mouth. “Our dear Chumlento is feeling under the weather this morning, aren’t you, dear? I’m sure it will clear up soon.”

“Shut up.” She glares at Coem and gives me another sneer.

“What happened?” I hear myself ask, as though my mouth has a life of its own. I could kick myself. Why would I ask such a stupid question? It’s none of my business and will likely get me slapped.

“We aren’t sure,” Coem answers. “It happened early this morning. It looks like a palsy of some sort.”

“Palsy?” I repeat.

“Oh, for Hell’s sake! Shut up. Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here. It will wear off, whatever it is. It’s probably just an allergy or something.”

I stare at her, my hands on the table, the paint stains visible. I snatch them back and hide them below the tablecloth, trying to rub the paint from my fingers. It’s just a coincidence. A crazy coincidence. I can’t wrap my mind around it, and I can hardly chew, let alone swallow.

There has to be a connection. But how? Why? There’s no way I did this. I don’t believe in this kind of… what? Magic? Voodoo? Do they suspect me? If they did, I’d already be dead. Chumlento would have killed me herself. I don’t think she’s big on forgiveness.

I eat quickly and then push back from the table.

Both Coem and Chum look up, surprised.

“Done already?” he asks. “You haven’t even finished your coffee.”

“I’m… full. Thanks for breakfast,” I mumble, stuffing a banana into my jacket, which I always wear to meals now. It has a lot of pockets to hide food in. Plus, I can’t keep sitting there, pretending I’m calm and that everything’s fine. I have to check my painting and figure this out.

I hurry around the table in time for my nameless guard to shove my shoulder. An icy zap stabs through me, and I feel numb in that spot for the next ten seconds. It wears off by the time we get back to my studio, but the sensation leaves me chilled and yearning for a hot shower.

As soon as I’m in my studio with the door shut, I forget about my guard and his ice cube fingers and hurry over to the painting. I have to check it before I do anything else. But the painting hasn’t changed. It looks the same as it did when I wrecked it… on purpose. But it does look an awful lot like Chum’s palsy, and I can’t help but release a wicked snicker.

***

It’s late and I sit on my bed, sketching a picture of Coem. This will be a notebook will be an experiment. Something I keep hidden. A notebook of every demon I see, hopefully mutated. I can’t hide it under the mattress. That would be too obvious. Not in a dresser drawer either. That would be the first place they’d check.