The Undoer (8 page)

Bret’s wounded expression makes me want to put my arm around him and tell him everything’s going to be okay

“We’d be able to see the gray man inside,” Doug says. “And I don’t see anything.”

“Me neither,” Owen adds, holding the pretzel bag out to me. I shake my head, not at all hungry… unless he were carrying barbeque potato chips. Why can’t he have those stashed in his pockets once in a while? Or better yet, chocolate.

“I don’t see one either,” I say, crouching down next to Bret. I turn him toward me and keep my hands on his arms as I look deeply into his eyes. If he were a demon, I’d know. I’d feel it in the pit of my stomach like acid or an ulcer. I feel nothing of the sort. As I gaze at him, a familiar warmth fills me from my toes all the way up to my belly, like a yummy, tingling bubble of sparkling apple cider. I close my eyes and inhale, swearing I smell the scent of pine. “He’s no demon. That much I know.”

“And you’re an expert?” Jag asks me.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” I stare him down, prepared to win this staring contest, but he shakes his head and escapes down the stairs to the basement. Dean jumps up to follow him, but I grab his arm, “Let him go. He needs to cool off anyway.”

To his credit, Dean nods, knowing I’m right, but he can’t let Jag feel bad all by his lonesome. He shrugs an apology and pounds down the stairs.

I turn back to Bret. “I guess I don’t get my turn at Greco-Roman.”

***

I lie on the church pew in front of the cold fire pit with only my coat thrown over me for warmth. Everyone’s asleep, catching up on rest before we go hunting again tonight. It’s quiet and my back aches, trying to sleep on this hard bench. It’s moments like these when I miss having a real bed, a real bedroom, and my little sister Sophie jumping on me in the morning.

I can’t live here with Dean and Jag—not that I’d want to—but even so, there is no invitation. In fact, if anything, the message to go away rings loud and clear. Dean feels sorry for me—he’s admitted that much—but Jag doesn’t. He wants the church all to himself. He doesn’t play well with other children. He can have it. I hate it here. I swear it’s haunted, and it has always given me the creeps. I would never sleep here by myself.

Some might think this is the life. Free. Independent. Exciting. Living with friends and killing demons. But this isn’t a TV show, and we aren’t Sam and Dean Winchester. Our lives are hard and often miserable as we eek out this tiresome existence.

Rolling over, I watch Bret sleeping on the pew across from me. He stayed after Jag went to bed, not even bothering to ask permission. He doesn’t have a blanket either, and his arms lie loosely over his chest. He seems younger in sleep and more at peace, with his lips slightly parted and his sooty lashes resting on his cheeks.

One of his eyes cracks open. I can’t help but smile at him, with his hair all mussed and sleep in his eyes. I like him, I admit it, and the urge to tease him about his bed-head is almost irresistible.

“Morning, Heidi,” he mumbles, rolling over to face the back of the pew. His words are muffled and soft, but I swear the next thing he says is, “Can you get Sophie some cereal?”

“What?”

But his mumbling has stopped, his eyes are closed, and he is already snoring again. I heard him wrong. He doesn’t know me, let alone my little sister.

A half hour later, I’m heating up instant oatmeal over a fire I built all by myself in the fire pit. Yeah, I have skills. The instant cereal isn’t the best, but it fills my belly. It’s my main staple. I always keep a few packs in my bag.

“What are you doing?” someone yells from the stairs. Jag is standing in the doorway to the basement, a caustic frown on his face, looking directly at me.

“That’s going to become your permanent expression if you don’t start smiling once in a while.” I grin at him, but he doesn’t smile back.
Jerk
. Some days, I just can’t stand the guy.

“You can’t have a fire in here.”

“Hello? Fire pit.” I point to the metal pan with flames in it that sits right in front of me. It’s been here for as long as I’ve known them… which is a long time. Kind of. I know they built it when they moved in, so what’s the big deal?

“We don’t use it. The smoke.” He points to where the smoke twists and circles in the exposed rafters above my head. “There’s no chimney.”

“Ah.” I hate the logical way he says things, and then the stupid feeling that erupts inside me after. I’d figured with how drafty this place is that it didn’t matter.

“Plus, someone might see it,” Bret adds. He has woken up and is watching me with sleepy eyes.

I hate the way they both look at me, as if I’m too stupid to figure it out on my own, and the heat of shame flushes through me. “Whatever.”

Jag glances at Bret, his jaw flexing and his dark eyes shining, but he doesn’t say anything to him. I sigh and dump a cup of water over the tiny flames. My mush is done cooking anyway.

“You should get that figured out.” I point to the ceiling.

“Yeah. I’ll get right on it.” Jag walks over to my bench and plops down beside me, glancing at my breakfast. “Don’t suppose you have any more of that?”

I shake my head. “You need a kitchen or at least something to cook on.”

“That’s a good idea.” He rolls his eyes, and then I remember he has a camp stove downstairs in his private lair. “So, are you ready?”

I glance at him while chewing my pasty, tasteless mush, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. “Huh?”

“You haven’t tried out for the Cazadors yet.” His evil grin grows, and I groan inwardly.

“Are you serious? Right now? I’m eating.”

“I’ll let you finish.” He folds his arms over his chest, and the one ray of sunlight that happens to infiltrate the church lands on his face, making his skin glow and his hair look the color of sugar cookies. It’s tied back at the nape of his neck, but a few strands escape and frame his face. He’s alarmingly appealing and I exhale, surprised I’m holding my breath in the first place. He wears a tight, black sweater and smells of soap and damp skin. He showered? Where? Probably from the bucket he keeps by his bed. I’ve bathed that way hundreds of times.

Bret stretches and yawns. “You’re going to spar? Now?”

“Is there a better time?” Jag looks directly at me. We’re close enough that I can see every gold speck in his eyes, every crease around his eyes, each individual eyelash. He searches my eyes earnestly enough that I can’t say no. For some reason, I don’t want to.

“Alright.” I set my half-eaten bowl aside and stand, slipping off my jacket. I still wear my black tank top and jeans from the night before, and I need a shower. I ignore the noxious odor coming from my armpits and hope Jag will too. He notices everything though, so I’m probably out of luck there. Guess I won’t be distracting him with my womanly wiles. I move away from the fire and wait for him, my hair hanging over my shoulder in one long, messy tail. “Ready, cowboy?”

He saunters over, a smile on his face. He wears combat boots and cargo pants. Easier to move in than my jeans, which gives him an advantage. Jag is a couple of inches taller than I am, and he’s stronger. Strength would be nice, but to win, I have to be quick. At least quicker than him, which considering who I’m up against, will be challenging.

I have to believe I can win.

We circle one another, moving slowly, with no one to witness but Bret, who is now sitting up on the bench, rubbing his disheveled hair.

Jag lunges, quick and lethal, but I anticipate that move. I know him well. He’s sleek, but I dodge and knock the back of his head with my elbow when I pass under his arm. His head snaps forward, but he doesn’t lose his focus or balance. He recovers smoothly and turns to face me, his smile widening.

I let my eyes soften, taking in every detail of him, from the movement of his feet, to the twitch of his fingers. He has tells, and I know what they are. I wait in fighting stance. He crouches and thrusts his arm toward me, like he’s trying to smack my face, but I pull back. He grabs my braid instead and yanks me forward.

The move takes me by surprise, and I can’t stop my sudden yelp of disbelief. I lose my balance and fall to one knee, and then he has me. He leaps on top, pulling my arm out from under me. My face slams against the cold, mosaic floor, the dust gusting away as I lie gasping.

He holds me down, his legs over mine, his chest smashed against my back, my arms helpless. Frustration springs to my eyes, and I fight back tears. Not because I’m hurt, but because I’m embarrassed. He pinned me so quickly, and I thought I was a better fighter than this. Faster than this. How did I even think I could compete with Jag when he can take me down in less than a minute?

His breath is warm against my ear. “Is this what you want? To be helpless? You can’t even move. I could do whatever I wanted to you. Anything. Demons are as strong as I am, if not stronger. They’re fast. Deadly fast. Do you
want
to die?”

I shove against him. He lifts off me and sits back, breathing hard, his eyes searching mine, but not with malice. I can’t read the emotions that flicker there, and I don’t want to. I turn away, not wanting him to see how vulnerable and weak he’s made me feel. I don’t want him to see the moisture that is collecting in my eyes. I keep my face aimed at the floor. “It doesn’t matter. If we don’t get rid of the demons, none of us will have a future. We’ll all be dead or wish we were.” I stalk over to my jacket and grab it from the dusty floor.

Jag draws himself up and brushes off his pants. He throws me a glance before walking out. One that has too much in it for me to decipher, and I’m not about to Sigmund Freud him in front of Bret.

“That’s true,” Bret says, suddenly beside me, his hand on my shoulder. “When did you start seeing them? The gray men, I mean.”

I look up, and his smile turns soft. Kind. A smile that makes me want to trust and confide, but if I give into that emotion, a torrent of tears will thunder through the dam I’ve erected.

“After my brother died.” I take the cup of water he offers and gulp it down.

“Really?”

I shrug and try to rein in my frown, a barb of sarcasm on the tip of my tongue, but it isn’t his fault I lost the match. I’m itching to take my frustration out on something. “What does it matter?”

“I guess it doesn’t,” he says. “I was just curious.” He grabs his backpack and follows me out the front door. “You’re pretty good, but you lack discipline. Jag is quick, but you could be quicker.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant I could help you, if you want.”

I stop on the front steps and turn to him. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is still bright. The dry, bland odor of dust floats in the beams of sunlight, reminding me of the park by my old house. Parched, brown, and gasping its last breath of abandonment. I miss home.
He
makes me miss home for some reason… the smell of pancakes on Saturday morning. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. I’d be happy to train you since you’re so bent on taking this route anyway. I’d rather you go to college, but if you’re going to be stubborn…”

I realize he’s teasing me, and the warmth I felt with him before rushes back, filling the craggy holes that were quarried by Jag during our wrestling match. “Okay.”

We walk down the street, our arms accidentally touching once in a while, but it isn’t weird or uncomfortable. Being with him feels natural, and I find myself wondering what it would be like to spend more time with him. I’m not against finding out.

Brecken

Teaching my little sister—who I do not want hunting demons—to hunt demons, is not part of my plan. I still think of her as a thirteen-year-old with braces, someone I need to take care of and protect. The only fighting I’ve ever seen her do is hair pulling—girl style—and slamming the bathroom door in my face. Although there were times when a cereal box exploded if neither of us would let go.

It seems serendipitous that we are reunited, and yet, we are still strangers.

I remember her fuzzy, leopard print pajama bottoms that she swore were good luck, and the pounding bass drum of her favorite rock group as it thumped its way down to my basement bedroom. I remember the hours she spent in the bathroom, and how she put milk or juice back in the fridge even if there was only a tablespoon left. But most of all, I remember sitting on the couch, visiting for hours and watching movies late at night.

Once, she asked me how she looked before she went out with some friends. I’d told her that she had on too much makeup. I didn’t think she should wear makeup at all at her age, but I didn’t mention that. Her eyes had narrowed and fear had stabbed through my chest—because you didn’t want to be on Heidi’s bad side—but instead of freaking out, she went back into the bathroom and removed some of the Lady Gaga.

Those moments hadn’t happened often, but they were clear in my mind. I missed out on the last five years of her life, but I am intent on making up for lost time. I can do that and the job I’ve been enlisted to do.

But first, I need to find a place to live. Jag is not going to throw open the doors of welcome, so I pull out the newspaper I picked up yesterday and turn to my only friend on the planet. “So, Heidi. You want to help me find a place to live?”

“You aren’t going to stay with Jag and Dean?” She winks playfully and chuckles.

Oh, she is adorable. So sweet and naïve. I love her so much. “Uh, no. I’m not getting any warm fuzzies from Jag, or did you not notice?”

She breaks out in laughter. The good, old-fashioned kind that bursts from your stomach and makes anyone close by want to laugh too, just for the infectiousness of it. This is how I remember her. Laughing. Eyes sparkling. Lips wide apart and teeth showing. I gaze into her eyes with a newfound appreciation of what I lost when I died, and what she’s gone through these last few years. How many times has she laughed like this since I’ve been gone?

“Sure. I’ll help.”

We saunter down the street, in no hurry, toward the closest listing I’ve found. I want to be near the church, but after seeing how those two boys live, I opt for accommodations that are more modern. Well, as modern as you can get these days.

Our first stop is five blocks away in an old yellow-brick building with an iron front door. Solid, but not aesthetically pleasing. I don’t care. We knock on the manager’s door, and he shows us to an apartment on the fourth floor. There’s no elevator, but there is electricity and running water, so already it’s better than the church.

The manager unlocks the flimsy door, which I’ll change if I move in, and we step inside. From the far corner to the front door, it’s wide-open space. A studio apartment with whitewashed walls and the only room with a door is the bathroom. The floors are scuffed hardwood, and the whole west wall is floor-to-ceiling windows with a few years’ worth of grime I can’t see through.

“I’ll take it.”

For three hundred a month, it’s a steal. I don’t even check out the other listings. Our next stop is a small mom-and-pop furniture store where I order a used double bed—because who wants to sleep in a twin?—and other miscellaneous objects like a nightstand, lamps, and a trunk to keep my stuff in. It’s obvious I’ll need more money than what Raphael gave me. I’ll have to hit him up for a bit more, but by that evening, I’m moved in and enjoying my view of the slums.

Heidi stands before the windows, the evening sun washing her in gold. She looks so ethereal and angelic.

She turns slightly to glance in my direction, her eyes wide and her expression soft. “I love it here. I’m so jealous. This is the perfect apartment.”

“Yeah. It totally is.” And I can’t imagine Heidi walking out and going anywhere else. Jag isn’t about to let her live at the church. And here I am in this awesome apartment… It doesn’t seem right to make her go. “So, this isn’t going to come out right, so bear with me, because I know we don’t know each other very well, but this place is plenty big enough for two people… We could share rent.”

She has no idea who I am. I could be any Joe Blow off the street, and here I am, asking her to live with me. Will she be reckless enough to say yes? I hope, in this instance, that she is.

She turns slowly to face me, her mouth opening, her eyes huge—like a tarsier holding onto a tree branch for dear life—but she holds back, not answering. Looking the place up and down, she surveys the wide-open space, its lack of privacy… and walls… and furniture.

I take in her stance, slightly insecure, but hopeful. She’s bending, wanting to say yes, but still not convinced. Our dad would freak if it was any other guy, and I wonder where he is and why he isn’t talking her out of joining the Cazadors. He and I never saw eye to eye. He did try to kill me once, but that’s another story. He adored Heidi and Sophie. He’d never hurt or abandon either of them.

“You don’t even know me. You have no idea what kind of person I am, and you want me to live here? To sleep in the same room?”

She’s considering it. She wants to be a Cazador and live close to the gang. She is no more welcome at the church than I am. Here, she won’t be alone anymore.

“Are you hitting on me?” she asks, matter of fact, and it is so off base that I can’t think of anything to say. At least I don’t respond with
yuck or gross
, which is what I’m thinking. “Heck no! No way!”

She frowns and draws her arms up over her chest, her gaze dropping to the floor. She glances out the windows. Her expressions are so easy to read, and I’m immediately aware that I’ve humiliated her. In my rush to convince her that I’d never hit on her, I made it clear she isn’t attractive to me. Immediately, I try to U-turn. “Not that any guy wouldn’t want to hit on you. Seriously, you’re… totally hot. Really.”

Her eyes widen and she takes a step back, her brows rising in something akin to astonishment and maybe a bit of hope. Okay. Maybe I said too much. I feel the need to backpedal in the other direction, but instead of opening my mouth and vomiting up anything else that might make the situation worse, I laugh and throw my hands up in the air. “Nothing is coming out right.”

Still chuckling at my inability to phrase anything appropriately, I walk over to the window and stand beside her, staring out over the roofs below me. Most are shingled, but some are covered with corrugated tin. This is a poor neighborhood and getting poorer. “I shouldn’t have asked you to move in. It’s not appropriate anyway. Your parents would freak.”

“Wait!” She reaches out in an effort to stop my train of thought from pulling into the station and uninviting her to live here. “It’s okay. It’s fine. I get it. And yes, I totally want to live here. If you were a dirt bag, I’d already know it by now. I can help with rent.” She smiles, a blush creeping up her cheeks while she plays with something around her neck. A half-heart pendant with blazing flames on the curve. There is an identical, second half to that blazing heart. My sister, Sophie, wears it… or at least she used to.

I feign innocence and ask, “What’s that you have there?”

She glances down and shrugs, wiping all emotion from her voice. “Nothing. Well, something that reminds me of why I do what I do.” She tucks the chain inside her tank top.

I let it go and wish I could see Sophie too. “So…” I get excited about the idea of her moving in. “We’ll cordon off that corner for your room.” I point to the south east end of the apartment, which has lots of space and will still leave plenty of room for the training equipment I intend to buy for the living room. Who needs couches?

“Seriously?” Her eyes grow wide, and a smile forms that brightens the entire room. “That would be fantastic! I would love that.”

I already know what living with Heidi is like, and it won’t be a piece of cake. She never washes her own dishes and she leaves all sorts of girl things on the bathroom counters, but she’s my sister, my family, and I am overjoyed to have found her. It will be just like old times.

She bounds back from her side of the room and throws her arms around me in a joyful hug. I hug her right back, burying my face in the familiar scent of her hair. Suave shampoo. Coconut.

“The first thing I’m gonna do is shower!” She grabs her backpack, which hopefully has clean clothes inside, because not only can I smell her hair, but the rest of her too.

I’m feeling generous and excited to have even part of my family under one roof, so I plan to get her some furniture of her own, to make her want to stay, because she sure as heck isn’t going to sleep with me, not that she’d want to.

When Heidi opens the bathroom door, steam wafts out in a cloud and the mirror is frosted over in dew. Gazing at me from her reflection in the mirror while towel drying her hair, she asks, “So, are you on your own? Do you have family? How old are you?” She rubs her damp tresses with a ratty old towel.

“Family? No. But I had a rich old uncle who died and left me everything.” It’s an old joke, like everything else, between us, because Heidi and I were hardly ever serious with one another. We were either joking around or arguing. It’s what made us close. The Urban Dictionary says so.

“Shut. Up!” She swirls around and stares, her mouth agog. “That cannot be true! That’s exactly what happened to me. That never happens in real life.” Laughter bubbles up from inside her, and she drops down next to me on the bed.

“You had a rich uncle die and leave you money?” I ask, already knowing we didn’t have an uncle, let alone a rich one.

“Not exactly. Tell me
your
story.”

“Well, okay.” I can think of absolutely nothing to say. If you want something to sound real, steal from the truth, but everything that’s true for me is also true for Heidi. We had the same parents, the same extended family, and the same neighbors.

“You know what? I’m dying for something to eat. Are you hungry?”

She studies me with a wry smile. “Fine. Be a baby. I’ll tell my story first.” She crosses her legs, Indian style, clasping her hands before her. Her hair is still damp and looks almost blue-black in the waning twilight. “But I’m warning you. My story isn’t a happy one.”

“Tell me.”

“It starts with a father who kills his only son.”