The Undoer (5 page)

Brecken

At precisely seven o’clock, I’m at the corner of Spruce and Ivy Lane, where I’m supposed to meet Jag and Dean. Just as I suspected, they aren’t here. I wait a polite ten minutes before jogging the few blocks to the abandoned church I followed them to last night.

All is quiet on that lonely, mostly uninhabited, dead-end street. It’s a perfect place for a hideout. The windows of the abandoned church are boarded up and the steeple stretches to a point, high and dirty white. Quaint. I like it immediately. At the end of the long block, a few kids ride old, rusty bikes in the sunset and one plays Kick-the-Can by himself.

Someone will notice me loitering, so I knock on the front door of the church. I only stand there for a moment before I hear rustling and heated whispering from the other side. The door is yanked open and there stands Jag, eyes flashing, one hand stretched across the doorway to block my entry. He looks like he just might slam it back in my face. He’s speechless at my audacity.

A serene smile stays plastered on my face as I peek over his shoulder at Dean, who waits behind Jag with a wide grin.

“Hey, Bret! You found us,” Dean blurts, trying to slip under Jag’s arm.

“Of course he did,” Jag mumbles, but he doesn’t step out of the way or invite me in.

Dean pushes Jag’s arm up and ducks beneath it. “We ordered pizza, but not everyone is here yet.”

Reluctantly, Jag moves out of the way.

I lean back and survey the church, admiring the construction. “Yeah. It wasn’t too hard to find.” I glance back at Jag with a wry smile. “I had a feeling you might forget to meet me, so I said a prayer and an angel pointed me in the right direction.” I take pride in my comedic wit. It took eons to hone.

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes narrow in obvious dislike.

I’m stumped at why he hates me so much. He doesn’t even know me. Sure, I’m about to steal his place at the top, but only for a little while. I won’t stay here indefinitely. Only until the job is completed and
The Door to Hell
is closed.

“Hey, guys!” someone calls from behind me. Two teenage boys saunter up the walk, one tall and thin with shaggy, brown hair. The other is short and stocky with military-short black hair and skin the color of mocha, his teeth gleaming white in his wide smile. Skinny carries a bag of pretzels he munches on.

“Dude, did you order the pizza?” Stocky asks. “I’m starved.”

“Yup,” Dean answers. “Should be here soon.”

Jag turns to stare at Dean, his expression incredulous. “You gave the pizza place the church’s address?” His eyebrows pull together into a scowl, and I can tell he’s itching to say something more. Probably something about Dean’s stupidity, but he holds it in. Remarkable. I had expected him to let loose with a violent temper or something. I guess he
does
know how to control himself.

“Well, yeah. I didn’t think it mattered,” Dean says. “The pizza guy isn’t going to call the police. Like they care if we live here.” Dean turns from Jag and glances at me, stuffing his hands in his pockets, looking perfectly chastised.

With an angry growl, Jag shakes his head and stomps back into the bowels of the church, not even bothering to greet their friends.

Dean shrugs and points to Skinny. “This is Owen.” Then gesturing to Stocky, he says, “And this is Doug.”

“Nice to meet you both,” I say. “I’m Bret.” The boys acknowledge me with a nod and Skinny goes right on munching pretzels.

“Bret wants to join the Cazadors,” Dean says. “You should see him in action.”

Doug looks me up and down, but he must be unimpressed. “Really?”

“He has a dagger you wouldn’t believe.” Dean points to my waist. “It kills demons
before
they take a body!”

“Really?” Owen’s bored look turns to slightly admiring, but he seems to be withholding judgement. He holds the pretzel bag out to me. “Let’s see it.”

“How about we go in?” I point to the church.

The boys head inside, and I follow them into the chapel. Only a few pews remain and are pushed over against one wall. The building has sustained some damage and looks pretty dilapidated. The ceiling is cracked, and huge chunks of sheet rock and plaster are missing. The room is shrouded in shadow, but a lone pulpit stands at the front, waiting for a preacher. Dusty choir seats are arranged behind it, slumped like old men, their feet nailed to the floor. A few pieces of stained glass litter the floor beneath the windows, glowing in the evening light that threads through the cracks.

The boys have built a fire pit in the center of the room over a mosaic of tiles, but the design is too far gone to tell what the picture was. The pit doesn’t look like it’s been used in a while. Owen drags one of the benches over, and Doug pushes another. He isn’t a huge kid, but he’s strong. The benches look solid and heavy.

There’s plenty of room for all of us to lounge and wait for the pizza to arrive. I have to admit that I’m hungry. I’m glad they ordered dinner.

These boys are a team, but I have yet to see the easy camaraderie I expected, so I wait for the ambiance to warm, to see them interact as a group. I sit down on a pew next to Dean, who chats happily, asking the other boys what they’ve been up to the last few days. Jag re-enters the chapel and leans against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His annoyance casts a dark pall over the room.

Does he ever relax or loosen up? What is he so angry about? How does Dean stand being with him all the time? Is Jag abusing him? Man, I hope not. I want as little drama as possible while I’m here. I just want to get my job done and leave. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can be reunited with Alisa. This is my final exam, and I plan to pass with flying colors.

“So, you don’t live here?” I ask Owen, trying to change the subject. I don’t really care who lives where. I just want to get them talking.

He scowls, his thick eyebrows pulling down and his thin lips tightening. “Dude, we don’t
get
to.” He tosses a pretzel into his mouth and chews angrily. “Jag likes living alone. It’s stupid if you ask me. I’m tired of having to walk here every time we need to meet. It’s far, man. Like three miles.” He flips his head to the side, and the hair on his forehead flops out of his eyes.

“So, only Jag and Dean live here then?” I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject, but now I’m curious. I glance over at Dean, and he is the only one nodding. Jag is suddenly nowhere to be found.

“We live at home with our parents.” Doug gestures to Owen and himself. “We’re neighbors. We went to Hill Valley High together. Jag went to Ocean Side. He was a year ahead of us.”

“Hey!” Jag interrupts, coming up a set of stairs by the front door. “This isn’t group therapy. We don’t share everything. Some things are private. We don’t know this guy well enough to know what we can tell him.” He sinks down at the end of the opposite pew, splendidly pulling off the predator look as he gazes at us from under his long eyelashes, his jaw flexing.

A tentative knock echoes on the front doors. Jag holds out a small bag to Dean, who grabs it. It jangles with change when he runs for the door. The pizza guy stands there, all dopey and confused as he studies the address. He holds a red, insulated bag in one arm, and the smell of cheese and pepperoni wafts clear across the room. I almost moan out loud.

“You guys order pizza?” The guy tries to peek in.

Dean keeps the door mostly closed and pays him in quarters, nickels, and dimes, most likely taken from dead demon dust piles. “Yep. Thanks.” He shuts the door before the guy can say anything else. When he places the boxes by the fire pit, we all dig in. Tomato sauce, cheese, and the tang of hot pepperoni assault my taste buds. My mouth waters as the explosion of flavor nearly lays me flat. My eyes close as I revel in the pleasure of something so simple. Hot. Gooey. Pizza. I chew slowly, relishing every bite.

“Dude, you act like you’ve never had pizza before,” Owen says, his eyes laughing as he gazes at me.

“It’s been years,” I answer, reaching for a second slice.

“That’s crazy,” Doug says, talking with his mouth full. “I couldn’t go for more than a couple of days without it. It’s my main staple. I’d die without pizza, and it’s the only fast food that still exists… almost.” He takes another huge bite and smiles as if he’s just eaten the sun. I like him and want to know him better. Anyone who loves pizza as much as I do is an instant friend.

Jag has yet to say much of anything. He eats quickly, methodically, just like he fights. He watches his friends, but he doesn’t participate in friendly conversation. He lounges, but the tenseness of his shoulders tells me he’s ready to jump at a moment’s notice. He’s all contradictions.

The evening grows dark, and soon, no light makes its way through the wooden slats over the windows. Night comes, and it’s time to go to work.

“So, where should we hunt tonight?” Dean asks, already getting his backpack together. He drops in pencils and a pad of paper, but no weapons. “We haven’t worked together in over a week. Can you believe it?” He directs his question toward Doug and Owen.

“Yeah, I can believe it,” Owen says, casting a sour glance at Jag, who completely ignores him.

Instead, Jag looks up with a glint in his eyes. There’s something slightly deviant about his expression, and I know that whatever comes out of his mouth won’t be good.

“I thought we’d head over to the Down Quarter,” he says.

The boys regard him in surprise, and Dean inhales sharply, clearly reluctant. “But… we don’t hunt there. It isn’t safe. Even for us.”

A slow smile spreads across Jag’s lips, and he swivels to face me. “But we have a magic weapon now.”

I haven’t been briefed on this location, but I’m not too worried about it. Either Jag truly knows I can do what he can’t or he wants me out of the picture and is willing to get me killed. Nice kid. At least I’ll get to kill some demons.

The boys look over at me, hesitant questions in their eyes. I feel confident, so I smile in response. “So what’s the Down Quarter?”

“It’s only the most dangerous place in the state,” Doug says, eating another slice of pizza, which has now grown cold.

“Huh.” I close my eyes, trying to picture such a place.

“So, you ready?” Jag asks, walking over to a narrow table where he has set his many weapons. Only one is runed, but he straps on at least five others, one by one.

“Yep.” I’ve had eons of time dealing with devils, demons, dark spirits, and fallen angels. If I’m not an expert by now, I don’t know who possibly could be.

“Great,” Jag says, his lips pressed into a tight, grim line. “Feel free to take the lead.”

I smile. That’s just what I plan to do.

Dean

I run next to Jag as we head toward the Down Quarter, our companionable silence comfortable, natural, like always. We’re in our element. I know how Jag is, and his posturing doesn’t bother me. I blow it off… like always.

He and I are at the back of the pack, and Bret jogs at the front with Owen and Doug, who are setting the pace.

“I doubt Bret is even his real name,” Jag mumbles. He doesn’t speak loud enough for anyone else to hear, and he doesn’t bother looking at me as he speaks. “He’s trying to worm his way into the Cazadors. We just have to figure out why.”

“Maybe it’s to kill demons,” I suggest.

He gives me a dubious look. I shrug because I figure we’re lucky to have him. But Jag isn’t finished yet.

“We’re just a ragtag group of teens,” he continues. “Why would he want to join us? No one even knows about us. How did he find us?”

“That’s a lot of questions. Maybe we should just be happy he’s here to help.”

Another deprecating glance. He keeps his thoughts to himself for a while, and we run in silence. It feels like the Bataan Death March. I’m just about ready to stop when the DQ—as I like to call the Down Quarter—comes into view.

It’s a dismal place. Gray, dusty, and abandoned. It’s also a place we never go.
Ever
. Besides being so dangerous, it brings up too many terrible memories. Memories that torture Jag at night, making him wake up screaming.

They revolve around a girl named Lily. I can still picture her face, delicate and porcelain white, with fine, snowy-blonde hair lifting in the breeze. She was tiny and seemed more fairy than human, ready to float up on transparent wings. Her whole family died the day of the Rift. Jag found her in the rubble after the earthquake, under the Coronado Bridge, which now lies under water. He’d heard her soft voice, pleading for help from beneath a slab of concrete. She’d broken her leg and had dislocated her shoulder.

We nursed her back to health, right in our church—the only other person to ever live here with us. She and Jag grew close quickly and would steal kisses when they thought I wasn’t looking. It lanced me through the heart, because… I loved her too. I wasn’t stupid. I’d known what was going on, but I never told anyone. Jag was better for her. He was brave, strong, and could protect her. Back then, he was charismatic and exciting. Why would she want me over him? It was stupid to even think about, so I’d lived with the heartache in silence.

And then… Lily died.

It was an accident.

I let the memories flood my mind and rip my heart while we run. Sometimes, it feels good to ache like this, to miss her, the memories becoming fresh again, fueling my impotence for things I can’t control.

It was the result of a tussle gone wrong with some really evil demons, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was supposed to be waiting for us at the church. Instead, she’d followed us to the hunt. She couldn’t see the demons inside their human host like we could. And she had walked into the middle of an ambush.

She died in Jag’s arms, her life blood seeping into the grass beneath her body. I watched the light in her eyes fade, watched her last breath leave her chest, her face fall into stillness, while Jag held her. He’d kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her bloodstained hair, and all the while, I’d watched, wishing it could have been me holding her that last time.

After that, Jag became quiet and cold, deadly and ruthless. He changed, and I guessed I did too. The world seemed dimmer, more evil and dangerous. Our old selves no longer existed. In this world, we became something else. I gave him the nickname Jag, after the big, black, ferocious cat he reminded me of. It fit. It stuck. We never used his given name again.

We come to the outskirts of the DQ and look down the dark, uninhabited street. A light breeze blows, but not enough to lift the dust. The air is heavy, moist, and pregnant, bursting with anticipation. We carry flashlights that cast beams too dim to really penetrate the darkness, and the belly of the beast lies just beyond. After our marathon, I don’t feel capable of handling the DQ. I just want to go home, go to bed, and cry for Lily.

“Doesn’t look like much is going on.” Bret glances at Jag. “Maybe it’s a slow night.”

“Oh, they’re there. Trust me,” he answers.

The rest of us hold back, no one wanting to go in first. Bret slips his magic dagger out of his belt and holds it in his right hand, the runed knife in his left. “Well, let’s check out that building down the street at least, and then go from there.”

“Fine with me,” I answer, as though my opinion matters, which I know it doesn’t.

Owen and Doug grip their runed daggers, but I don’t even bother to get mine out. Instead, I pull out my real weapons. A small pad of paper and a pencil.

Reluctantly, I follow my friends across the street to an abandoned apartment building, rising four levels. Squat, ugly, and rectangle. After entering, a case of stairs rises immediately before us. There’s no elevator. Darkness cloaks the corners at the back and creates imaginary phantoms in my peripheral vision. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

I take a deep breath, knowing I won’t cause any damage to a demon with my eight-inch, number-two, sharpened pencil. The most I can do is poke an eye out. Bret stops with his hand up for us to wait, listening. Nothing.

He takes the stairs first and Jag follows, trailed by Owen, Doug, and then me. We come to the first door at the top of the stairs, Bret and Jag flanking the opening. My heart thumps, the anticipation being the hardest part. My eyes actually tear up… from terror.

Three years ago, I saw a group of demons gang up on a guy, but not to inhabit him—they already had meat suits—but to tear him apart. Each one yanking on an arm or a leg until they dismembered him. I’d watched, hidden, hearing the man’s terrified and agonized screams, knowing I was next. Jag hadn’t been around to save me that night, and the guilt of not even trying to rescue the poor guy plagues me.

This is
my
nightmare. The dream that wakes me at night. It happened right before my eyes. And happens to people all the time. That, and worse things I don’t want to think about.

The door to the apartment is ajar. Jag peaks in. There’s no movement or sound coming from inside. Bret taps the door with his toe, and it opens the rest of the way. He slips in and scurries to the first bedroom, glances inside, and gives the all-clear sign. Jag jogs past him to check out the next room’s door. Owen does the same at the third door, which ends up being a bathroom.

I wait by the front door, hating myself for my unwillingness to kill. I should have stayed home rather than suffer this humiliation in front of everyone. They know I’ve resolved not to murder people—demon possession notwithstanding—and they seem to appreciate my resolve to hold true to my convictions, Jag being the only one who really
gets
it, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still feel like a wuss.

The apartment is clear.

On to the next one. We repeat the program. I hate hunting like this. It’s labor intensive and time consuming, like digging up earthworms that don’t want to be caught. Waiting for demons to come to
us
is much easier. Just look for the closest frat party and you have your night scheduled. In coming here, Jag is trying to make a point, but no one seems to grasp what it is. Least of all Bret. And the fact that he’s putting us all in danger pisses me off.

Not one apartment in the whole building has a demon hiding inside. This is highly unusual and disappointing… to everyone else.

“Where are they?” Owen asks, his frown deepening into frustration. “What a waste of time.”

I shrug, trying to keep an expression of indifference even though I’m jumping for joy. “What time is it?” I ask Doug, who is wearing normal clothes tonight. Jeans and a T-shirt, navy-blue vans, and a denim jacket. It’s odd seeing him out of costume—his black military uniform—and I wonder why he’s dressed this way. If there is one thing I can say for Doug, he marches to his own tune. He doesn’t care what people think. He does what he knows is right. He’d make a good leader if anything happened to Jag… not that anything would.

He’s also our dedicated timekeeper. He wears two watches, one on each wrist. “Eleven thirty-five,” he answers. “Why? Got somewhere else to be?” He smirks, his midnight eyes crinkling, assuming—I’m sure—that I am in a hurry to get out of here, which I am, but I also like to keep track of how long these excursions take. For my logbook/journal.

We leave that building and head back the way we came. The desolate streets remain silent, not a soul to be seen, evil or otherwise. Bret stops suddenly, squinting down a side road.

“What is it?” I ask.

Bret glances back at us, his head cocked and his eyes narrowed. “I thought I saw something. Now I’m not sure.”

“Well, they’re hard to see at night, especially if they don’t have a body,” I say.

“That’s how I want them.” Bret creeps down the sidewalk, sticking to the shadows.

Jag swears under his breath and takes off after him. The rest of us follow because that’s what we do. We’re the wingmen. We pick up the slack if Jag ever needs help. Well, Owen and Doug do.

Owen is amazing when he fights. Being so tall and thin actually accentuates his abilities, those gorilla arms reaching out with a dagger… A chill runs over my shoulders just thinking about it. Doug fights like a ninja, darting and dancing around—almost as though he is flying—small and deadly.

I catch up to Bret as he stops to glance around another corner. “Anything?”

He puts a finger to his lips and motions for us to follow. We sneak around a dilapidated building and the street grows even darker, if that’s possible. There are no streetlamps that work here. Shadows thicken and everywhere I look, I swear a ghostly apparition is waiting to jump me. I don’t know why I keep coming along on these expeditions. It’s not like they need me. I’m more of a hindrance than a help.

The more I think about it, the more discouraged I become, my feet dragging along the crumbling sidewalk. I don’t like being pathetic, but I hate killing more. Yet, I have the gift. I can see the demons. What is my purpose if not to kill them?

Jag sidles up next to me and crouches down. “I think he’s leading us into a trap. What better way to get rid of a bunch of demon hunters? Or better yet, take over.”

“Dude. That’s ridiculous.”

“I know he wants my spot as leader. I feel it deep in my bones. I’m not going to hand it over easily, and I’m certainly not going to just lay down and die so he can take it.” He shakes his head, watching and waiting, his mouth in a thin, grim line. “I still haven’t figured him out, but I’m not going to trust him until I do.”

“You’re the one who brought us here. What did you think would happen? This is the worst idea you’ve ever had. This is the worst part of town. And you
know
why. It’s not just the demons that live here.” I shake my head, tired of this paranoia where Bret is concerned.

Jag doesn’t have a chance to answer as Bret motions us forward.

“There,” Bret says, pointing down the block to an alley on the opposite side of the street. A huge garbage bin is turned on its side, and garbage is strewn all over the ground. No one will ever come here to clean it up. There’s movement in the alley behind the bin.

“This is it,” Bret whispers. “Wait for my sign.” And with that, he darts down the street. Jag isn’t about to be left behind.

Indecision burns in my chest, but I don’t have time to be wishy-washy. I pull my pack tighter and follow behind Doug and Owen, who are already halfway across the street. Sweat beads along my forehead, and I feel it dripping down my back. This is so stupid. We shouldn’t be here. My heart races. Hyperventilation isn’t far behind. What am I doing?

Bret vaults over the garbage bin and disappears into the alley. Within a millisecond, I hear the wretched screeches of the damned as he dispatches them to hell where they belong… unless he’s using his magic knife. Then they’ll be dead forever.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I can’t
not
see what’s happening. I crouch-run up to the dumpster where Doug and Owen hide, watching wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the incredible display.

Bret is a whirlwind of fury, slashing and stabbing, running up the sides of the building—crouching tiger style—and then doing backflips off, to stay out of the way of the demons while he systematically kills them. Even Jag just stands there agog, staring and speechless, his dagger hanging loosely in his fingers.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” I’m not speaking to anyone in particular. Just talking out loud. For whatever reason, there are over a hundred demons in the alley, crouched and hiding in the darkest corners as though they knew we were coming for them. A few fight back, but most try to flee… unsuccessfully. Bret gets them all. Even a
scratch
from his dagger makes them disintegrate into dust.

“That, my friend, is the grace of God.” Owen glances at me, his face filled with the same kind of wonder as my own. But his expression is also filled with admiration and maybe even a touch of envy.

“That knife… we need that knife,” Jag says.

It’s over quickly, and Bret is back out of the alley before I can even register it. Not one demon is left.