The Undoer by Melissa J. Cunningham Page A

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