The Undoer

by Melissa J. Cunningham

  Jag stands before me, furious. More angry than I’ve ever seen him. His eyes are narrow and ice cold. I glance over at the new guy to see his expression. He has moved away to stand by the windows, one beam of light shining through the boards into his bright blue eyes, which are wide and worried. For someone who wants to join the Cazadors, that doesn’t bode well.

  Jag stands with his hand thrust out, waiting for his dagger. Please let the floor open up to swallow me. If I admit I took it, I’m a thief. If I lie to cover it up, I’m a liar. They all stare, knowing. I have insidious written all over my face, and I hate that feeling.

  I almost bow in defeat, but something sparks inside my chest. Indignation. I stole from Jag, true, but he is denying me my God-given right to battle evil. The heat of righteous anger fills my heart and a boost of awesome shoots through my veins, overpowering my mortification.

  I stand up straight and shove Jag back with the confidence of a glamazon—something my brother used to call me. A powerful woman with a dash of panache. I’m not afraid of Jag, and it isn’t an act. He always bulldozes over me. He does it with pretty much everyone. To his cronies, he’s a god. To me… I’m not sure what he is.

  Doug puts his two cents in. “Dude,” he says to Jag. “Just let it go. We all have a runed dagger. You weren’t even using that one.”

  Slowly, Jag turns until he faces Doug fully. “This is not a discussion. You don’t get to say anything about it. You don’t have a vote. If you don’t like it, get out.”

  Doug wilts, and I feel terrible for him. Today, it changes. Today, I’m different. Today, I’m strong. My new tattoo still burns like a son-of-a-bitch, reminding me of that fact.

  “The answer is no,” I say. “I need a weapon. I can see the demons the same as any of you. I’ve trained to kill them, same as you. You are keeping the dagger from me, and I’m done being shut out.”

  Incredulity settles on his face, and his eyes grow wide and round. Nobody talks back to Jag. Ever. For a moment, he’s frozen, and then his expression thaws. “How about we fight for it?”

  “What?” He would enjoy that. But he’s stronger than I am, faster too. My heart sinks at what I know is coming. I don’t want my time in the Cazadors to start out like this. Do I want to be one of them so badly that I’ll subject myself to this kind of ridicule and humiliation?

  “No, I don’t want to fight you. For once, I just want you to act like a normal human being. Would that really be so hard? Would it really be so terrible to have a girl in the gang?”

  Miracle of miracles, Jag has nothing to say. I can see it in his eyes. He expected me to fight fire with fire, and instead, I turned it around, making him look mean and heartless. Most of the time, he wouldn’t care, but today, we have an audience, including a new recruit. Jag won’t want to seem weak, but he also won’t want to seem cruel. I know he has a heart in there somewhere… buried deep.

  “Fine. Keep it. It’s old and dull anyway.” He turns away and walks out onto the front porch.

  I just stand there, frozen in the weighty silence that follows, everyone’s eyes on me. Jag gave in. Somehow, today, I won. I let the smile stay on my lips as this information sinks in. I file the feeling away so I can pull it out later and relish in it when I’m alone.

  A moment later, Owen clears his throat and wipes his mouth of pretzel crumbs. He looks over at the new guy, who just stands there watching our drama as though he can’t believe he even wants to join.

  “Here’s what I think,” Owen says. “In case anyone wonders, because yeah, my opinion is valid here. I have a say in things too. I think Bret should be in. We need him. Anyone who can kill so many demons at one time deserves our trust.” He sits back down on the bench and begins cleaning his fingernails, his lips pursed as though he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Jag steps back into the church and leans against the front doorjamb, clearly having heard Owen’s statement. Dean looks ready to speak up, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stares at his feet as they shuffle on the dusty floor, probably not wanting to offend his best friend. Whatever. Just once, I wish he’d stand up to Jag. Someday, he might. I hope I’m around to see it.

  “Maybe a tryout would be good.” Doug looks around, and all of our eyes are on him. He puffs up, pleased to be the center of attention. He’s not alpha, but he has valuable insights. Jag listens to him… sometimes. “We could see how Bret does against Jag in a mock battle. You know. To see if he’s up to snuff.”

  The Cazadors have done this before, for fun, to see who the top dog really is. Owen and Doug hold their own against Jag, but nobody can actually beat him. I’ve never even tried. That would only serve to prove how pathetic I really am… at least against him, and that isn’t something I feel the need to advertise.

  I hope they don’t ask me to fight him too. I’ve already said no and being close to Jag is a dangerous idea. Even though he is cold and prickly, there is something about him I’m drawn to—as sick as that sounds—even fascinated with, and I can’t figure it out.

  He’s an itch I can’t scratch. A thirst I can’t quench. Maybe it’s his drive, the way he pursues his goals, the way he’s so single-minded. It can’t possibly be the way his muscles flex beneath his clothes or the gleam of sweat on his brow when he’s fighting. There are times when I stare at his mouth. Not because his lips look soft, but because his breath always smells of Oreo cookies and I love that.

  I glance over at him. Maybe it’s the way his hair falls from its tie at the back… just a few long, blond strands in his eyes… No, those are things I refuse to notice. Nothing good could come of thinking about Jag in this way. Plus, being near him is like touching an exposed live wire or watching a poisonous snake ready to strike, but not being able to move. Exciting to anticipate, but you know it’s going to hurt… a lot.

  “I’m up for that,” the new guy says, a slow smile spreading across his face.

  I study him like I just studied Jag. Bret’s dark, shaggy hair curls at the base of his neck and dimples crease his cheeks. Physically, he’s got it all. Bright twilight-blue eyes, and a rockin’ hot body, but there is something odd about him. Shaking my head, I can’t escape the feeling that he seems familiar, but I would remember that face if I’d met him before.

  “Well, Jag?” Dean asks.

  Jag kicks the old pizza box across the floor, cursing under his breath. With his hands on his hips, he turns away. We wait. His back is rigid, but expanding as he breathes. When he finally turns around to face us, his eyes are calm and there’s a smile on his lips. “Let’s do it.”

  He unstraps his belt and tosses it to the floor, then shakes out his arms, ready and waiting. I lean against the wall. Time slows as Bret and Jag angle closer together, their eyes watchful. Dust motes halt in their descent, suspended in a ray of candlelight, and even my breathing pauses in heightened anticipation.

  They circle one another, feral animals ready to demonstrate their prowess. I’ve seen Jag fight many times. I’ve studied him. I know his moves. When he battles demons, it’s with a single-minded grace that I yearn to duplicate. His body, while loose and supple, can twist and turn, bend and weave, in and out—almost like a ballroom dancer—faster than anyone else I’ve ever seen. I watch him, mesmerized.

  Jag is the first to lunge, his shoulder slamming into Bret’s gut, but rather than being bowled over by the inertia, he rolls with it, coming out on top instead. He pins Jag and then leaps back, smiling wickedly.

  With a growl, Jag jumps back to his feet without pause. They circle again. This time, Jag waits. Bret reaches out repeatedly, play smacking, teasing, and taunting. Jag doesn’t fall for it, but the fury in his expression grows dark and malevolent.

  Bret attacks, his leg swiping low, snagging Jag’s foot, but Jag catches his balance easily, like the cat he is, landing on his feet. Then Bret rams his elbow into Jag’s chest with enough force that Jag flies back, crashing onto the floor, gasping for breath. He rolls over and comes to his feet, a new and unusual look in h
is eyes. One I haven’t seen before. Alarm—the realization that he has come up against someone he might not be able to beat. And it looks to me like Bret is going easy on him.

  Jag dives for Bret and they go at it, grabbing, pulling, restraining, and shoving. It seems that neither of them will give up, but a sheen of sweat begins to condensate on Jag’s forehead. I lean forward, squinting to be sure. He’s tiring.

  But not Bret, who fights like a boss. He didn’t seem that big at first glance—only a few inches taller than me—but watching him, it’s impossible not to be affected by his sheer force of will, like an otherworldly power is at his back. I want to laugh, cheer, and clap my hands all at the same time. If there is anyone built to beat Jag in a brawl, it’s this guy.

  Dean sidles up beside me, matching my stance and crossing his arms. “So, who’s your money on?” His smile deepens, and his sandy-blond hair curls endearingly around his ears.

  I shove his shoulder with mine. “Bret, of course.”

  He laughs and shoves back. “You’re in now, you know. There’s no going back.”

  A smile creases my lips even though I’m trying to keep a straight face. “What makes you say that?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  “Yeah, I have the same feeling.” I should feel more excited, but the knowledge sits like a weighted stone in the pit of my stomach. This is what I’ve wanted for so long and now that it’s here, it feels anticlimactic.

  Conversation grows quiet as Bret and Jag grunt and breathe. And then they both step away from each other at some silent signal, their chests heaving, both sweaty.

  “I’d say it’s a draw.” Owen tosses another pretzel into his mouth.

  It isn’t a draw. Bret could have beaten Jag and done it in the first five seconds. He let it last so Jag wouldn’t lose face or feel undermined. I don’t know how I know this, but I do, on a gut level. I glance at Bret, and he’s looking at me too. He winks. It’s quick, but it’s mingled with a sly smile. He knows that I know.

  “So,” Bret says between ragged breaths. “Am I in or what?”

  Jag wipes his face, wearing a scowl. “Or what.” He hasn’t technically lost, but he didn’t win either, and that has to rub the wrong way.

  “Hey, we had a fair fight and you didn’t beat me.” Bret wipes his face with a rag, his jaw hanging slack with a half-smile.

  “And you still haven’t told us anything about you.” Jag stares right back, his jaw clenching. “Why should we let you in when we know nothing about you?”

  “Ask me anything.” Bret slouches to the floor, his back against the wall.

  Owen speaks up before anyone else has a chance to. “Where’d you get the knife? The one that actually kills demons.”

  Bret drops his chin to his chest, chuckling. “From an angel.”

  Before he has time to even defend himself, Jag pounces and throws a punch that lands square in the middle of Bret’s face. Bret rolls away, one hand covering his bleeding nose. But Jag isn’t done. He leaps on top of Bret, his arm raised to punch again, but Owen and Doug race forward and grab him around the chest, pulling him off before his fist finds home.

  “You think your high and mighty attitude is going to help you here? You think your lies will be believed? We’re not a bunch of morons!” Jag lets his friends pull him away, but he shrugs from their grasp once he is standing.

  Bret rises up on an elbow, wiping his face with the sleeve of his other arm. “Ow. That hurt.”

  Talk about odd man out. If I were him, I’d just leave, but then, I was him not so long ago, and I didn’t leave. I’m curious to see what he will do now.

  He exhales deeply and then looks Jag in the eye. “I’m not lying. I got the knife from the Archangel Raphael. It’s called a Nephilim dagger. Nephilim weapons kill for good. If you are even scratched by one, your soul will cease to exist.”

  “Prove it.” Doug crosses his arms over his chest, those dark, fierce eyes demanding an honest answer.

  We all glance at Doug with expressions of disbelief. Including Bret.

  “Dude, he said a scratch would kill you. Are you volunteering?” Owen shakes his head and pulls out a new, unopened bag of pretzels from an inside pocket of his jacket. He never stops eating. I have no idea where he puts it all.

  Bret glances at the floor and smiles sheepishly. “I swear, I will never lie to you. I can’t always tell you what you want to know, but I was sent here to help. That’s all I can say. Will you let me help?”

  Jag curses and wears a beaten expression. “And how do we know you aren’t a demon yourself? Because that’s what I think you are. In fact, I know it.”

  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.”