The Undoer

by Melissa J. Cunningham

  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 ent
husiasm. 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?

  Chapter Thirty-three

  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 wo
n’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.