《What Crawls Below》


 Prologue

    On the night of his birth, halfway across the world a tsunami took almost a thousand lives. The day he took his first steps, an earthquake split the ground open and swallowed several hundred people.


    This should not prove any relevancy, but perhaps those who swallow superstition along with their morning coffee might believe this child was cursed.


    He was born to a painfully mundane American family: a postman and his secretary wife.


    There was nothing amiss about his family. No outstanding debt, hardships, or health concerns; no intra-family feuds to keep anyone up at night.


    Then the child''s father blew his brains out, and his mother took to drinking herself into an oblivion where she could not hear the child''s cries. It was better, safer for her, than thinking of the last time she''d seen her husband: his blood splattered all over the toddler''s face, which was morphed into a grin as he watched cartoons on the television. All the while, his father''s body was limp on the floor mere feet away from his crib, hand still clutching the pistol.


    Upon beginning school, he didn''t get any attention from his peers, either. Eventually the child learned silence held a much higher power. He became mute, at least to those who believed in using a physical voice to sound out words in order to communicate.


    Another indication of his strangeness: he slept like the dead, still and sound throughout the night with no memories of anything that might have plagued his mind. Any normal child should have had a constant barrage of nightmares with the life he''d already led thus far, but it was blindingly obvious he was not normal. Then sometime in his first few years of elementary school it finally happened.


    The dream was...well, upon awaking, he couldn''t be sure it even was a dream. It had felt so strikingly tangible. Starring in it was one single person: a young woman, and something about her was terribly familiar. He had never seen her before, but it was as if he knew her from a past life...No, that wasn''t it. He was going to know her, many years down the line.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The girl - on the precipice of adulthood, it was hard to describe her as either child or woman - was wearing a white nightgown that blended against her already pale skin and made her appear ghostly. Splattered all over it, and painting her palms, neck, even coated deep under her fingernails, was blood. Not her own blood, that much was obvious as the girl looked from her own trembling body to the one at her feet.


    Then the shaking subsided, and for a flicker of a second, the corner of her mouth lifted. Just a fraction, just briefly, but it was certainly a smile.


    This dream became a nightly occurrence, at least until the demon came for him.


    The child knew there was something different about the man immediately when he showed up on his doorstep one night, holding the buzzer down for several whole minutes until the boy finally crept past his snoozing mother and opened the door. The man towered above him, craning his head to keep it from hitting the door frame above him; rain was pelting his slick black suit, but this did not seem to bother him. His eyes were the color of the cigarette ashes left all over the boy''s home, but underneath them the child saw another face: skeletal, with a leering grin and glowing crimson eyes.


    He stepped aside and let the man in, unshaken.


    With that ever-present grin stretching across both his human and true faces, the man curled a sharp-nailed finger towards himself and whispered when the boy crept closer, "Where is your mother?"


    The child didn''t point a finger or open his mouth but knew the answer: under a pile of quilts on the living room couch. After a silent, motionless moment passed, the man nodded softly and walked down the hall. He stopped at the edge of the sofa, eyes trailing to the assortment of empty beer bottles on the coffee table and back to the woman. Then he looked back to the boy.


    "Your mother is very sad. But you''re an intelligent child. You know that already, yes?"


    A silent, motionless moment passed.


    The man nodded. "Yes. And you can help her." He directed his gaze once again to the bottles, picking one up and grasping it at the neck before smashing it against the edge of the table. Glass rained down to lodge in the shag carpet, one long and jagged piece remaining in the man''s hand; the sound did not disturb the woman. "She wants this. You know what to do."


    A silent, motionless moment passed.


    "No," the man said in response, staring back at the child before him. "She won''t be upset with you. Not where she''s going," he added, pointing a single claw downwards.


    The boy took the crude weapon from the man, and he made his mother happy again.


    ? ? ?


    The boy followed the man into the rain and down the slick black streets of the city to the subway. No one else on the train seemed to see what the child saw, but nonetheless leaned away from the man accompanying him and averted their eyes. The child was used to such behavior directed at himself, and felt some of the loneliness dissipate from his being.


    It would all leave him soon, under the demon''s care and teachings, just as the dreams did. But those things, very human things, would return to him over a decade later. All it took was a little coaxing.

 1 § First Time

    The sky was an oil spill, the moon already vanished off the horizon and leaving an ocean of emptiness in its place.


    Cyrus didn''t know the exact date of his birthday, but the human calendar held no true weight for him. The new moon, symbolic in its infancy for new beginnings, had come into phase; for all intents and purposes, he was turning eighteen tonight. All it would take was a little bloodletting.


    The anticipation was rushing through his veins, better than adrenaline. Other newly christened adults were buying their first (legal) pack of cigarettes and scratch offs; Cyrus, never one to fit in with the crowd, was itching to kill.


    The desire had existed in him for as far back as he could remember.


    At age eight he found a dead centipede on the carpet at the foot of his bed. Some morbid curiosity overtook him, and he used a fork to pry the creature apart to see what it was made of. Soon, his interest in dissecting insects grew into an obsession, and eventually it grew to larger animals. He would dig through the organs of roadkill and inspect each little piece, but he was often disappointed by how incomplete the specimen were. He needed them fresh. At age eleven he successfully caught and decapitated a live squirrel. It was much more interesting to take them apart right away and observe how long it took for the organs inside to fully stop functioning. When he was done with his research he would discard the carcass in the nearby woods and use a little of their blood to mark a tally on the trunk of a tree to keep track of his body count.


    That trunk filled up quickly.


    Cyrus had been ready to move on to bigger game for year, but waiting had taught him patience. Being cut off from all killings, even the smallest of insects, two years back had taught him famine.


    The feast was near. Knowing this stilled the tremors in his hands, but set off new ones down his spine.


    Behind him, footsteps tread through the grass. Before that sound filled the field, Cyrus felt his presence first: a feeling darker than the sky above him and as chilling as the October night''s air.


    "Are you ready?"


    Cyrus needn''t speak or nod. Just as he could sense Acheron''s presence, the demon could feel his own¡ªand Cyrus was sure he was giving off his excitement in colossal waves.


    Acheron''s hand fell upon Cyrus''s shoulder. "Come along, then, boy."


    As they trudged toward the compound, Cyrus imagined what it would feel like. Blood, at least that of animals, didn''t taste good; the soul leaving a body had a flavor all its own, however, and it was like a drug. He hadn''t felt that kind of power in ages. He grew warm all over thinking of human blood, what it would feel like on his skin.


    "Keep your thoughts to yourself," Acheron said under his breath. Maybe if Cyrus had a soul he might be embarrassed.


    From the field it was over a mile''s walk through the woods over fallen, rotting logs and piles of dead leaves. Then the trees opened up just enough to house the compound, a stout-looking cabin from the outside that actually sunk several stories below the ground. The first floor could have been a scene from a rustic issue of Better Homes and Gardens. The fireplace crackled with a modest fire on one wall; antlers hung from the opposite over a leather reclining couch. A photo of Acheron with his arms around Cyrus, who had a half-assed smile on his face, rested on a wooden side table.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    It was all a show, designed for those considering joining their organization or the small chance prying eyes may appear. They passed through the living room of the cabin and Acheron undid the latches to the basement door. Down they went several flights, passing the bedrooms of other members, to the very bottom¡ªa wide, cement-floored space with nothing to occupy it except a folding chair in the very center and the man sitting in it.


    The man''s head snapped up, and in the pale light provided by the flickering sconces on each otherwise bare wall his mouth opened and shut like a ventriloquist''s doll before he could finally find his voice. "Please¡ªyou have to help me!"


    New sets of footsteps sounded off the stairs and two new men joined the group, biting their lips and casting the man bound to the chair grins. One of them carried a knife, which he passed off to Cyrus.


    The hostage''s eyes widened. He shut his mouth as Cyrus felt his fear kick up a notch, saturating the air with a heavy damp feeling, similar to that of fog. He normally didn''t feel human emotions so strongly, and his fingers stopped caressing the blade in his hands. Forcing himself to take a breath, Cyrus shot a glance at Acheron.


    "Don''t be rude," Acheron responded, not meeting his gaze. "Use your inside voice."


    Clearing his throat, Cyrus glanced at the two other men in the room. Bune and Moloch¡ªAcheron''s most respected followers. Only they had been given the privilege to witness the night''s proceedings. "I¨C" Cyrus swallowed, hard. Speaking aloud for him was the equivalent of trying to do it underwater. Cyrus settled on forming a new question, one that would be easier to ask. "Where did you find him?"


    Moloch, who had handed him the knife, let a slow smile creep onto his face. He took his time with the explanation, saying with a drawl, "Old feller''s from that dying church on the north end. I caught him on his way out. Was in a real hurry but I convinced him to give me some of his time," he added, watching the captive struggle against the rope.


    Cyrus could have guessed as much from the man''s black clerical clothing and the crucifix dangling from his neck. Moloch leaned into the priest, resting his hands on either armrest, until his nose nearly touched the other man''s. "You know what I am, Father?" he whispered.


    The priest shook his head rapidly. Sweat had begun to pour down his face and slick his hair to his forehead.


    Cyrus held back the impatience that stirred at this. Of course the man didn''t know; unlike the other people in the room, his soul was untainted, and he could not see Moloch''s true eyes¨Cthe black ones.


    Acheron grunted and Cyrus stepped forward, but Moloch was not done toying around.


    "Cheer up. You''re witnessing the beginning of the End."


    As Moloch''s grin faded and he finally drew back from the priest, Cyrus flipped the knife around, weighing it in his palm and feeling the ancient symbols that had been carved into the wooden handle. The weapon was light and his hand molded around it effortlessly.


    He met Acheron''s eyes; the latter nodded, and Cyrus touched the blade to the priest''s throat. The fear ebbing from the man nearly knocked him off his feet. He paused, some whisp of a memory passing through his head. Cyrus could swear he''s done this before, killed someone before, but in seconds all traces of the feeling were gone. In its place was a cool resolve.


    "You''re ready," Acheron affirmed.


    "Please," begged the priest.


    Okay, he thought. He slowly pressed the blade in further until it pierced the tender skin of the priest''s jugular.


    "You believe in God, Reverend?" Moloch murmured from behind. Cyrus gritted his teeth and focused on the knife, the neck, the kill. The priest nodded now, fervently. "What about now?" A thin line began to drip down the man''s neck, puddling in his white collar. Once again, he nodded.


    "Do it, Cyrus," Acheron commanded the same time as Moloch repeated, "And now?"


    He slashed the knife to the side and painted himself with blood.


    Cyrus''s jaw went slack and he dropped the blade, staring at the gaping, jagged wound in the priest''s throat. He couldn''t see the soul leave his body, but he felt it, he felt it in every atom of his being.


    It was divine. The closest to heaven Cyrus would ever get.


    "How do you feel?"


    Acheron''s voice was nearly undetectable, drowned out from the ringing in Cyrus''s ears. He took a deep breath and met his mentor''s red eyes.


    "Like God."

 2 § Ghosts of the Past

    A week had passed since the ceremony and Cyrus was still coming down from the high. The other members of the congregation seemed to sense the change in him, keeping their heads down and hurrying past any time he walked their way.


    That was alright. He was used to it.


    What surprised him was learning it was sort of his fault, and that he could control it. For years, Cyrus''s role in the organization was to spectate: go along on recruitments, watch the little miracles Acheron performed to sway people to their way of thinking, and observe each member and report if any of them began to show signs of relapse. Most of them were Christian, after all, and that God had a way of sticking in people''s heads. Then Acheron told him he was a man now, and it was time to get more involved.


    "The first step will be changing how people see you," Cyrus''s mentor had explained. "It''s your nature to show the world your true self, but you must learn to mask it."


    Acheron promised they would begin his training that evening, but had some errands to run, leaving Cyrus alone to his own devices. It often was this way, Acheron disappearing for hours or days on end and doing¡ªwell, whatever the hell demons did. This left him with an entire house to himself; even Bune and Moloch were subjected to the compound a mile away, entrusted to keep an eye on the congregation. The one normal thing about Cyrus was that he had a home to call his own.


    It was small, just enough space to encompass two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen and den. The house was mostly bare, with plain walls in need of a second coat of paint and just the necessities as far as furniture went. It looked like they had just moved in yesterday, though Cyrus had been living there for almost his whole life.


    Free time. He didn''t have many ways to spend it: no books, no television or anything else to hold his attention. He could busy himself through self reflection or meditation, both Acheron-approved activities. Since Cyrus had been thinking about himself all week, he opted to go with the latter.


    Cyrus had just closed his eyes, letting himself sink into a peaceful, empty-minded nothingness, when the doorbell rang.


    The tone sounded through the whole house, echoing around the empty space. He flinched. They didn''t get many visitors; not unexpected ones, anyways.


    Cyrus crept to the door, listening intently. When he heard nothing come from the other side, he stretched out with his mind, expecting to feel a faint presence on the other end, if anything at all. But what he actually felt¡ªit made his hands start to tremble, sent a jolt of electricity up his spine.


    He hadn''t felt such power since killing the priest. No, he hadn''t felt this kind of power ever. And the strangest thing about it...It wasn''t fear or darkness. It was something he could only describe as brightness, like he was trying to stare straight into the sun.


    It burned.


    The doorbell rang again, and with another flinch of his shoulders Cyrus swung the door open. He didn''t know what to expect on the other side, but it wasn''t a teenage girl with a sparkly lipglossed smile. Beyond that, though, he could see her eyeliner was a bit smeared and her eyes were red.


    "Good morning, sir. I''m with Cross Fellowship and we''re all a little worried about a friend who''s gone missing. Have you seen this man?"If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    She uncurled her fist and thrust a flier at him.


    Cyrus''s stomach had already begun to flip as she spoke, and he spared the quickest glance at the paper. The familiar face of the priest smiled back up at him, devoid of the sweat and pain and fear Cyrus himself had painted it with. The flier put a name to what had been an emotionless, bare canvas of a kill: James Crocker.


    A devout man was a loved one, and Cyrus should have seen this coming. Still, his mind went quiet, freezing in a panic. Without thinking over his actions, he began to shut the door in the girl''s face.


    "Hold on a min¡ªCyrus?"


    A foot appeared in the doorway, and he was unable to shut it all the way. He scowled down at her tattered black tennis shoes and tried to calm the tremors coming to life in his palms.


    "It really is you, isn''t it?" The girl continued, her voice hushed now. In fear or¡ªand he didn''t understand this one¡ªawe?


    Cyrus risked a quick glance at her face, but got caught in her black-rimmed stare and stayed there.


    She sucked in a breath, shaking her head. "Do you remember me?"


    Cyrus said nothing.


    Tuesday Hale nodded slowly, the smile reappearing. "You haven''t changed. Don''t I warrant at least a hello, though?"


    Her foot had left the threshold, and Cyrus took the opportunity to finally shut the door. He leaned against it panting.


    A silent, motionless moment passed.


    When he was able to catch his breath, he continued to stay very still, counting in his head until he reached triple digits. Then he opened the door again, just an inch.


    She was gone. But she left her flier, and James Crocker''s friendly face looked more accusatory now.


    ¡ª


    "Would you care to explain why you''re so unfocused?"


    Cyrus snapped himself out of the daze, refocusing on the present. Acheron had returned home and, as promised, begun his training. The two of them sat cross-legged on the bare floor of the den, inches apart. He bit his lip, hard, and averted his eyes.


    "Now, as I was saying," Acheron said, the edge leaving his voice. "Everything has energy. Yours is strong, stronger than most. To some degree, people can sense that."


    Cyrus nodded at the appropriate times, trying to keep his eyes on his mentor, but every now and then drifted.


    "Eventually you will be able to change just how they react to it. What are you feeling from me?"


    Darkness. That''s the first thought that popped into his head; too basic of a description, but the only earthly explanation for the waves of ancient power pouring off of Acheron. It felt like drowning. It felt like burning alive. It felt like all the millions of collective fears mankind has ever endured. Cyrus fought the urge to shrink back.


    Acheron tipped his head. "No need to flatter me. What do you feel now?"


    Cyrus uncurled his fists, seeing the tremble that had started in them moments before had already died. He released a deep breath, able to meet Acheron''s eyes again.


    "Less intimidating, yes? This is what you will need to master."


    With his best effort, Cyrus tried to tamp down his unrelated thoughts, but they overcame him. The fear Acheron had just showed him, the fear he himself had given to the priest¡ªwhy had Tuesday seemed unbothered by it? He had no idea how to shut it off yet, but her only concern had been why he was shutting the door in her face.


    "Cyrus." Acheron snapped his fingers in front of his face. Narrowing his eyes to slits he said, "Did something happen today?" The temperature seemed to plummet then.


    Cyrus forced himself to verbalize his thoughts this time. "No."


    Acheron simply looked at him, sporting his best poker face.


    The cracks in his fa?ade widened, and he caved. He projected his best mental image of Tuesday''s flier, focusing entirely on James Crocker''s face and avoiding any mention of the girl.


    Acheron rose, turning and staring at the ceiling. He stood like that for several minutes, and Cyrus''s limbs were too frozen for him to follow suit.


    Cyrus figured this was the working definition of shit hitting the fan. Why hadn''t he thought to question what they''d do with Crocker''s body?


    Acheron snapped his head back down, looking back at Cyrus. "Calm down. It has been taken care of."


    The demon turned on his heel and strode from the room, pausing for one brief moment at the door.


    "You have never lied to me before, boy. You don''t want to find out what happens if you should do it again."


    When the front door slammed, Cyrus crept back to his bedroom. Legs nearly giving out from under him, he fell back on his plain, stiff mattress and went under a blissful nothingness.


    Except it didn''t stay nothing for long. For the first time in¡ªand he didn''t realize this immediately¡ªover a decade, Cyrus dreamt. It took awhile to make sense of what was being shown to him, to unravel the shapes and colors and sounds and put a meaning to them...and then he remembered. He remembered this wasn''t the first time he''d dreamt this.


    And focusing harder on the bloodied girl in the tattered nightgown, he realized she was no stranger.


    Back when he was just a kid it had made no sense, but Cyrus had just seen this girl¡ªon his own doorstep.


    The dream morphed as he processed this. Tuesday looked down at the body beside her feet, then to the knife in her hand¡ªthe knife Cyrus had used to kill the priest. Licking the blood off her lips, Tuesday told him, "You were right. That wasn''t so bad."


    Fuck. Shit had indeed hit the fan, and now it was raining down all around like¡ª


    Well, shit.

 3 § Catalyst

    Actions have consequences. Cyrus''s penance for his lie was extra ''community service''.


    Their organization, Second Advent, ran on taking in broken people at their limit with their own faith and giving them something else to live for. As Acheron had told him many times, there was strength in numbers, and power in strength. If they were going to cleanse this world, they would need all the earthly power they could get their hands on.


    That meant recruiting like-minded people. And for the first time, Acheron expected Cyrus to play a role in this recruitment instead of being a silent spectator.


    Bune was to accompany him. Moloch rarely went along on these things; his temperament was a bit too much to mask. Dressed in simple jeans and t-shirts, the two left the compound. The only thing Cyrus had been armed with was a pamphlet explaining the benefits of joining Second Advent. As they say on the train, he ran his thumb over the embossed catchline on the front cover: TIRED OF PRAYING TO A GOD THAT DOESN''T LISTEN?


    "Smile."


    Cyrus looked up from the pamphlet to see Bune eyeing him with a sneer.


    "Better practice now, boy. You think you''re gonna win over anyone looking like that?"


    Gritting his teeth, Cyrus attempted to curve his lips upward in a way that seemed genuine. Bune grimaced, rolling his eyes.


    "Well, that''s off the table. Hope you can think of something else."


    Fifteen minutes later, Cyrus was standing shoulder to shoulder with Bune on Delilah White''s doorstep. From what Bune had coached him on the way over, Cyrus knew Delilah was divorced and had lost her son in a drunk driving accident. Acheron had already reached out to the woman, who had reluctantly agreed to take a home visit.


    Bune nudged his shoulder. Uncurling his fists from the pamphlet, he rang the doorbell.


    The woman was frailer than he had imagined possible, thin and hunched over as if she could collapse at any moment. She took one look at the men on her doorstep before pulling her shawl tighter around herself and opening the door wider. Cyrus stepped around her, clearing his throat.


    The words didn''t come. He didn''t know what to say.


    Shooting Cyrus a glare, Bune spoke up. The picture of politeness, he shook Delilah''s hand as he said, "It''s very nice to meet you, Ms. White. I hear you''ve been having a difficult time."


    Her eyes trailed to a picture hanging front and center on the wall of a young boy. "You could say that."


    The three sat down. Bune raised an eyebrow at Cyrus as the woman picked at her shawl.


    Cyrus cleared his throat again. "If it''s alright, I''d like to talk about God."


    Delilah met his eyes. Hers were cold and blank.


    He forced himself to not look away. Backtracking, he said, "That''s your son," gesturing to the picture.


    "This is where you tell me he''s in a better place now, right?"


    "No." Cyrus knew if he looked beside him, Bune would have an icy glare reserved for him. He didn''t look away from Delilah. "I can''t say he is. I can''t say there''s any place better than this. But what if I could tell you we could make this a place where a tragedy like that never happens again?"


    Delilah just stared at him. He handed her the pamphlet and watched as she saw the words over the cover; tears came to her eyes, and her lip began to wobble.


    He knew he was in the home stretch. It hadn''t taken much at all. "All this time your prayers have fallen on deaf ears," Cyrus said. Trying to inject some empathy into his voice, he continued, "We''re here now."


    Delilah began to sob, first clutching the pamphlet to her chest before wrapping her arms around Cyrus too. He froze, unmoving in her embrace even as her tears began to fall on him. "You look so much like him," she cried, smoothing back his hair.


    Through the gap in her arms he caught Bune''s eye. He mouthed, Son of a bitch, kid, and smiled.


    ¡ì


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Bune parted ways with Cyrus after leaving the White residence after handing him a shopping list. "Supply run," he explained before disappearing down into the subway.


    The walk to the store was peaceful, at first. His success with Delilah had him flying as high as his first kill had done. He couldn''t get her anguish out of his head though, and that mellowed him a bit.


    Something changed then. Cyrus couldn''t put a label to it, but noted goosebumps has risen along his arms. It was an uncharacteristic day for the season, with the sun high and bright overhead and taking away any need for a jacket. He slowed down, and the other people on the street flashed him scowls and hurried around him.


    Cyrus closed his eyes, trying to focus on the feeling that had begun to rush through his body. It started as warmth, seeping into his very core¡ªthen he imagined it forming into an invisible lead, gently tugging him in another direction. Eyes still shut, he followed its pull.


    Moments later, his other senses were invaded¡ªthe smell of burning rubber burned his nostrils, squealing tires against asphalt filled his ears. Cyrus''s eyes snapped open just in time to see a black sedan screech to a stop; his hands thudded against the hood that was resting against his thighs.


    He couldn''t breathe, and it had nothing to do with the fact he had almost been run over. Staring back at him with eyes as wide as his own, Tuesday was sitting behind the Cadillac''s wheel.


    Another car blared it''s horn. He didn''t look away, and Tuesday made the first move: gesturing him aside. Remembering how to move, Cyrus stepped back on the sidewalk. Stiff, like his limbs had been replaced by concrete, he watched as the Cadillac turned into a nearby parking lot.


    Cyrus stayed glued in place as Tuesday threw open her car door and sprinted across the lot. As she came closer, the feeling that had overcome him only grew stronger. How hadn''t he recognized it?


    Maybe he hadn''t wanted to.


    "OhmygodCyrusareyouok¨C" Tuesday inhaled a deep breath then tried for coherency. Still sort of hyperventilating, she said, "Jesus, I''m so sorry! I kinda zoned out back there, I didn''t even see you."


    Cyrus was still focused on the energy coming off of her. What he had previously thought of as warmth was tainted by her fear. The coldness enveloped him.


    He''d never met another human he could feel so strongly. That only left him with about a thousand questions he had no answers to. Cyrus concentrated on the most pressing one, trying to project his thoughts as he so easily did with Acheron.


    What are you?


    Tuesday''s expression didn''t change. Some of her honey-colored hair was plastered to her face with sweat; all the color had drained from it, leaving her skin sallow.


    Maybe some people were just¡ªwell, bright. Maybe Tuesday was just bright.


    As Cyrus was turning this over in his mind, she spoke again.


    "Okay, I know you don''t like the talk but if you don''t say something in the next three seconds I''m taking you to the hospital¨C"


    "I''m okay."


    Tuesday blinked, her mouth falling open slightly. She let out a shaky breath. "It''s nice to hear your voice. I didn''t think I would again, after your mom¨C"


    Killed herself. She didn''t finish the sentence, but it didn''t matter. The words didn''t hurt Cyrus. He didn''t remember anything about his parents but what Acheron had told him; they had abandoned him, so why should he care?


    "Where did you go?"


    Cyrus glanced around, but the people walking past were all too buried in their own lives to spare them a second look. He couldn''t sense Acheron near, but he could swear he was being watched. Paranoia, of course, but what if Acheron found out what had just happened?


    He should turn Tuesday in to him. Someone with the power she must have would be a valuable resource. Cyrus found he didn''t want to give her up though.


    She was his first secret. That was surely part of her intrigue. He also craved the feeling he got around her, his own personal power plant.


    That''s why he answered her, verbally. He wanted to prolong the feeling.


    "My uncle took me in," Cyrus said, the lie falling effortlessly off his tongue.


    "And you...switched schools?"


    "Home school."


    Tuesday had to lean in to hear him over the midday traffic. Cyrus didn''t take the hint to speak up; talking at all was foreign enough. He had managed it alright earlier, but it had been a job then. A chore. This was different.


    She shook her head slowly, looking him up and down. Cyrus stared at the pavement to avoid her eyes. He didn''t have the faintest idea what she must be thinking of him. He could only expect her to bring up an excuse about needing to be somewhere and get the hell out of dodge.


    She didn''t. "Well, uh, I''m really sorry for, y''know, almost killing you. Is there anything I can do to make up for it...give you a ride, maybe?" Tuesday began walking towards her car.


    Cyrus was shaking his head, but followed anyway. He began to explain he was capable of walking to the grocery store and Tuesday interrupted him.


    "Says the guy who jumped into traffic. Get in the car."


    As she turned her keys in the ignition, Cyrus hesitated outside. Tuesday looked back at him, and she tapped the gas pedal, revving the engine.


    "That wasn''t a request, FYI."


    Cyrus slid into the passenger seat with stiff limbs. Every decent thought was screaming at him to get out of there. But his instinct¡ªit was telling him he was right where he needed to be.


    "You sure you''re okay, Cyrus?" Tuesday asked softly as she pulled onto the main street.


    The image of her, a different version of the sweet girl sitting next to him, came back to him. It was just a dream. It shouldn''t mean anything. He wanted to believe that, but coincidences didn''t exist in his world. He''d had that dream long before he''d ever known this teenage Tuesday.


    In fact, the last time Cyrus had known her, they''d been in kindergarten together.


    The memories of that time were faded, blurry, and nearly impossible to reach. He could recall a vague scene, though, of a younger, tinier Tuesday. She''d sat next to him one day at his otherwise deserted table in the cafeteria and shared her lunch when she saw he didn''t have one.


    Recalling that memory made the others come easier. She was the only one who ever bothered to try talking to Cyrus, especially when he didn''t bother talking back. Tuesday apparently didn''t mind, because she spent most lunch periods with him. Sometimes she even had sat with him on a bench while the other kids better utilized recess time.


    Why?


    "What?" Tuesday said, pulling Cyrus out of his reverie. "I''m sorry, I didn''t catch that."


    Cyrus stared out the window. He hadn''t meant to say that out loud, and he wasn''t going to repeat himself.


    "I feel like..." Tuesday paused. When Cyrus risked a glance over, he saw her fingers were gripping the steering wheel like she was stranded in open waters and it was the only thing keeping her afloat. Her next words came quieter. "I feel like I knew you in another life."


    These were strange words to be coming from a good little Christian girl. They were strange for other reasons, but Cyrus chose not to dwell on them.


    She laughed, and he felt her eyes on him. He didn''t meet her gaze. "Sorry, that was weird. I just thought...it needed to be said."


    After several moments she cleared her throat, tapping her french-manicured nails on the wheel.


    "Anyways, I was distracted earlier because¨Cwell, remember the flier?"


    How could he forget? His first kill. It made him wonder what killing her would be like.


    Cyrus dug his nails into his palms and bit his tongue. Shaking his head did nothing to rid himself of the thought. Unaware of his internal crisis, Tuesday was still talking.


    "They found James."


    Cyrus finally looked up. Her eyes were red and glimmering with tears just about to spill over.


    "He¨CUgh, sorry," she said, dabbing at her eyes. "His...body...was found in the next town over. Keys and wallet gone, car trashed."


    They were pulling into the grocery store parking lot then, which was good: Tuesday had begun shaking, the tears coming thick.


    "The police say...he was mugged." Sucking in a breath, she trained her questioning eyes on Cyrus. "But who mugs someone by slitting their throat?"


    Her anguish was seeping into him, mixing with his own. He unlocked the passenger door and opened it, before staring at her pointedly.


    "What¨Coh, right, you''ve got stuff to do. Sorry, I didn''t mean to be...such a mess." Tuesday sniffed, wiping her eyes and studying her hands. "Well, ah, see you around."


    Cyrus took a few more seconds to watch her, turning the words over in his mind. If she were right about that, it would equal danger for the both of them.


    He also had a feeling it didn''t matter. He would be seeing her around, definitely.


    If only in his dreams.

 4 § Something Wicked

    For several weeks, Delilah White had been making the hour-long trip to Long Island to get a feel for Second Advent and her possible place in it. During her first venture through the woods in order to reach the compound, she''d clung to Cyrus''s hand and cast weary looks back at Bune. The whole way there she talked about her son. At one point in that first hike, Delilah commented, "He was quiet like you, too. Wouldn''t hurt a fly."


    By her third and fourth trip, Delilah''s discussions about her son became less frequent as she settled into the new family Second Advent provided for her. She even called the cabin "quaint" and no longer needed the safety blanket she''d found in Cyrus.


    In fact, by that point she''d begun to avoid him like most people tended to do.


    It was the day of her initiation as a whole and true member that Cyrus realized he had become a problem.


    All of Delilah''s prior visits had taken place in the cabin''s living room just as the rest of the members'' had. They consisted of weekly prayer circles and group discussions about virtually anything under the sun pertaining to faith. Instead of praying to a God that didn''t listen, new members were asked to simply direct their thoughts into the universe. Delilah had taken her tasks in stride and now stood in the same field Cyrus had a month before, both contemplating their role in this world.


    By now, she had no problem taking an oath to uphold and protect Second Advent''s ideals. With all the members forming a ring around her, Delilah stood straight and proud in the middle, as healthy as Cyrus had seen her. She wouldn''t meet his eyes though, not anymore. The members on either side of Cyrus gave him a wide berth, not looking at him either.


    It was like he didn''t exist to them. Or rather, they didn''t want him to.


    Cyrus bit his tongue and forced himself to pay attention to the proceedings. He''d seen plenty of initiations in the past few years, but never one for someone he''d recruited himself.


    Acheron stood before the woman, dressed all in black: the color of death and new beginnings.


    "Will you help us purify the world, Delilah?"


    "I will."


    "Are we ready to accept Delilah as our own?"


    "We are," the thirty-some members forming the circle all said in unison.


    Acheron struck a match and Delilah''s eyes stared at the dancing flame. He let it fall to the small pile of firewood at his feet, which had been drenched in accelerant. A fire burst to life.


    "It''s time," he prompted emotionlessly.


    From across the circle, Cyrus could see the woman swallow hard. After a moment''s hesitation, she produced a photograph from her pocket.


    Wetting her lips, Delilah said, "Do I really have to do this?"


    "In order to fully appreciate our duty we must shed all attachments to our past life. They serve only as distractions in the way of our true purpose."


    Nodding slowly, she bit her lip and dropped the photo into the fire.


    The memory of Delilah''s son curled and blackened at the edges before quickly succumbing to the flame. In seconds, he was ash.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡ì


    After the ceremony, Acheron confronted Cyrus alone.


    "There have been complaints."


    The image of Delilah and all the others avoiding him came to mind. He didn''t bother projecting this to Acheron; it was clear they were already on the same page.


    "Well," his mentor drawled. "Come with me."


    As they made their way out of the woods, Cyrus asked aloud, "What are we doing?"


    Acheron turned to regard him with a dark gleam in his eyes. "Hunting."


    It took half an hour to reach Queens from the compound, and from there the two entered the subway. By the time they reached Brooklyn, night had fallen. The city didn''t mind: a string of buildings rising to scrape the sky lit up, a thousand torches in the night. Cyrus ventured into the city frequently, but he''d never been at night. Tonight wasn''t the time for sight-seeing, though.


    Quiet, both physically and in his head, Cyrus trailed after his mentor. Acheron led him down the brightly lit streets until they turned into dark ones, the kind out of a movie where the character either gets mugged or kidnapped. The tall and beautiful buildings became worn-down, dilapidated ones; the standard chain link fences grew barbed wire.


    And then came the people.


    Pale, emaciated, twitchy people; they lurked in shadows and alleys and peered out at them. Acheron came to a stop. In front of them was a sullen looking house, boards nailed over the windows and weeds growing tall in the cracks of the sidewalk. Through the gaps of the boards, Cyrus could see a faint light emanating from inside.


    Acheron eyed the house with¨Cwell, Cyrus didn''t entirely know what to make of it. He almost wanted to label it lust. Blood lust. "The place is filled with suffering. Can you feel it?"


    He couldn''t.


    "No matter. Inside are some humans you may relate to."


    Cyrus furrowed his brows.


    "This is a drug den," Acheron said. "And you are on the path to becoming a junkie."


    His mouth went dry. Cyrus couldn''t look at the sad little house any longer, and set a questioning stare upon Acheron. He replayed the mentor''s earlier words in his head: Hunting.


    "In due time. I didn''t take you here solely to prove a point." Acheron flourished a hand at the house. "From now on, you will have to be more discreet. No more priests, and you will have to keep your need under control. But when you must take a life..." Acheron nodded, still eyeing the house. "It has to be someone no one will miss. Someone no one will look for."


    Acheron could only read from Cyrus what he wanted him to, and Cyrus did not let on to his disgust. "Am I..." He couldn''t say the words. "Now?"


    Placing a hand on his back, Acheron steered him back down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.


    "Holding life and death in your hands is the highest of power and you will treat it with respect." Seeing the look on Cyrus''s face, Acheron continued, "I know. We will back, and soon. But I need to see how long you can hold yourself back."


    They did not speak the rest of the way home.


    When they reached the house, Cyrus was exiled to his bedroom with the instructions to stay put as long as he could manage. When the need became too much, Acheron told him, and only then¨Cthey would go back.


    On the first day, Cyrus sat cross-legged on his mattress and meditated.


    By the time the second day came and went, Cyrus''s could not keep himself still any longer. He paced back and forth across the room. His mind wouldn''t stay blank, and the first thing to come to it was Tuesday.


    He hadn''t dreamt of her in awhile. What did that mean?


    Cyrus wished he could consult Acheron on the matter¡ªWhat was she? If anyone could know, it would be his mentor. Acheron was almost as old as the Earth, after all, created from the remnants of the first dark and tainted souls. If humanity was a spectrum, Cyrus was closer to the human end than him; he had been born, after all. So where did Tuesday fit on that spectrum?


    He couldn''t explain it, but Cyrus imagined she was more human than anyone.


    On the fourth day, even the ability to form conscious thought left him. Watching his hands shake, Cyrus recalled the junkie comment Acheron had made. It was clear he was right. The human soul was the strongest force on the planet, and he craved to taste it again. Besides, he was growing stronger and needed something to fuel himself. It was evident when he''d naturally turned Delilah to their side on his first try, but slowly lost his connection with her. It was like expecting a car to run on oxygen instead of gasoline.


    Still, he had expectations for himself and was sure Acheron did as well. Cyrus only came out on that fifth day when room began to spin and nearly face-planted then and there.


    He didn''t have to go far. The darkness pouring off him must have been strong; Acheron waited outside Cyrus''s bedroom, leaning against the wall.


    He met his mentor''s eyes and nodded.

 5 § Damned If You Do

    Cyrus was watching the blood run off his body and down the drain when the doorbell rang.


    He flinched, and the light overhead flickered erratically. Only when he got his heart rate under control did it finally go still in submission. He could feel the soul he''d taken just hours before rushing through his veins like adrenaline; it likely had something to do with the electrical problems. Cyrus would have liked to take a moment to mull that over.


    No time. Slipping on the tiles, Cyrus struggled into his clothes and passed a towel over his wet hair once. Just as the doorbell rang a second time, he flung open the front door. Without first acknowledging Tuesday, he looked back down the hall for any trace of Acheron. The only sound was his ragged breaths.


    Cyrus spoke, and despite his usual timidness, his voice did nothing to disguise his frustration. "What are you doing here?"


    Tuesday looked at him like Cyrus had just backhanded her. "I¡ªI hadn''t seen you in awhile, and I thought I would check in."


    She was dressed in her Sunday best, a lacy white dress that came to a rest at her knees and a metallic cross hanging from her neck. The sight of it made Cyrus shiver.


    Sparing another glance behind him, Cyrus bit his lip until a metallic taste flooded his mouth. It took a minute for him to find his voice again. When he did, it was quiet. "People tend to avoid me."


    "Well, I think you''re interesting."


    His two worlds were colliding. A normal girl who apparently wanted his company was standing three feet away, but less friendly images were playing in his head. He and Acheron had spent the night scouting the drug den, and by the time Cyrus had gotten his fix, the sun was beginning the rise. The druggie''s soul had nothing on the priest¡ªyou''ll come to have a taste, but nothing will be as good as your first, Acheron had told him. It was still a massive shock to his system, and with Tuesday''s warmth washing over him, Cyrus thought again about killing her.


    "You should go¡ª"


    "Well, what''s this?"


    The sound of Acheron''s voice, booming but jovial, caused Cyrus to flinch again. He gritted his teeth and didn''t dare look behind him even as a hand fell on his shoulder and squeezed. Tightly.


    Tuesday seemed blissfully unaware of the tension hanging in the air. Perhaps Acheron only wanted Cyrus to feel it, heavy enough to smother him. "Oh, uh¡ªhi! You must be Cyrus''s uncle...?"


    "That''s correct," Acheron responded, and the smile was evident in his voice. It was more chilling witnessing this fa?ade than if he would just show what he was truly feeling. "And you must be why my nephew has been so distracted."


    Cyrus''s limbs locked in place. Tuesday simply blushed.


    "She¡ªwas just going¡ª" Cyrus bit out. His teeth had begun to chatter.


    "Nonsense! You must invite your friend to stay for breakfast, it''s only polite."


    With that, Acheron''s hand squeezed his shoulder once more and fell back to his side. Cyrus watched him disappear into the kitchen.


    He tried to tell Tuesday she didn''t have to and that she really should get going¡ªbut no more sound left his mouth.Stolen novel; please report.


    Tuesday looked between him and the floor, her cheeks still tinted pink. "Well....I suppose I can. Want to show me around?"


    Cyrus stared at her, trying to will her to just turn around and walk away. Whatever power rushing through him that had messed with the bathroom light had retreated into hiding. Tuesday, unphased, slid past him and shut the door.


    With mechanical movements, Cyrus walked through the halls with Tuesday in tow. He tried to imagine what her house, what any normal house, would look like. Anything but this blank canvas he called a home.


    "Kinda small," Tuesday commented, as if that were the only thing wrong there. "But lots of potential."


    Cyrus stared at the floor.


    Tuesday glanced towards the kitchen before bumping his shoulder with her own. "C''mon now, cheer up. Your uncle seems very nice."


    His jaw began to ache with how hard he was clenching his teeth. He didn''t respond, couldn''t possibly open his mouth now.


    Still whispering, Tuesday said, "I''m sorry if this was a bad time. I just... you''re my only friend, Cyrus."


    That got him to look up. Her eyes were trained on the bare wall beside him. Working her jaw, she gave a little shrug and a nervous laugh.


    "Okay, maybe that''s an exaggeration. But you seem the most...real."


    What did that even mean?


    "Come along, children!" Acheron called from the kitchen where the smell of grease was emanating. Exchanging wide-eyed glances, Cyrus and Tuesday crept into the room.


    It was surreal, seeing Acheron step in as a paternal figure. If he pinched himself, would he wake up from the nightmare? Even stranger than his new attitude, however, was the feast he''d spread across the dining table.


    A tall stack of pancakes, plate of bacon, bowl of fruit and glasses of orange juice graced the normally bare table. Acheron had never cooked for him before. Hell, Cyrus had never even seen him eat. Used to a rather bland diet, the sight of the food should have had Cyrus salivating. At the moment he felt much more inclined to throwing up.


    Seating himself across the table from Cyrus and Tuesday, Acheron appraised her with a single raised brow. Maybe it came off as polite interest, but Cyrus could almost see the gears turning in his head. "What is your name, dear?" Acheron asked, fixing himself a plate.


    Cyrus sat motionless as Tuesday took the cue to fill her own plate. "Tuesday," she said, another blush spreading across her face. "Uh, Tuesday Hale."


    "Hale," Acheron repeated slowly. For just a moment, cracks formed in his fa?ade and Cyrus felt Tuesday shudder beside him. The darkness was gone from his tone just as quickly, before Tuesday probably even had time to understand what had just happened. "As in, Pastor Hale?"


    She nodded. "Do you know him?"


    "Oh, no, no, but I''m familiar with his work. He gives a wonderful service." He cleared his throat. "That''s an interesting name you have there," Acheron added, but Cyrus saw his eyes were unfocused.


    "It was my father''s idea, he says it has to do with his faith. It was a Tuesday when he saw the light," she said. Eyes darting to Cyrus, she cleared her throat and laughed. "Tragic, I know, but he''s silly like that."


    The kitchen was quiet for several moments. Cyrus stared at his empty plate, and no one reprimanded him for it.


    Tuesday stood up from the table, glancing at Cyrus. "Well, this was a lovely meal. Thank you, Mr..."


    "Scott," Acheron provided, using the surname they gave to the few people curious enough to ask. He shook her hand, his eyes lingering on her too long for Cyrus''s comfort. "Do feel free to visit any time." With a parting smile that triggered Cyrus''s gag reflex, Acheron left the room.


    Cyrus shoved back from the table, taking Tuesday by the arm and ushering her out the door. Just before he shut it, she said, "You don''t have to be embarrassed. My family''s a little weird, too."


    "Goodbye," he managed to say. When he turned around, Acheron was suddenly inches away.


    Cyrus cringed back, ready for the darkness to descend. After several moments of quiet, he met Acheron''s eyes.


    "Do not bother apologizing. It is in motion now," he said quietly, as cold and empty as their home. "She''s drawn to you, and darkness begets darkness."


    Acheron began to turn, but Cyrus projected all the anguish and confusion that had been building in him since Tuesday nearly ran him over. Acheron paused, not looking back at him. "Well, boy, out with it."


    Licking his lips, Cyrus said, "Is she¡ªhuman?"


    He counted several beats of his heart before Acheron responded. Cyrus had to strain to hear him. "More so than you."


    He began walking again, reaching the door and leaving him with these parting words:


    "She would make a strong addition to our cause."

 6 § Cocaine and Other Highs

    Cyrus dreamt again that night. However, when the darkness overtook him, he didn''t see Tuesday.


    He saw himself.


    Cyrus had never seen a movie before but imagined it was like this: from the outside looking in, watching a character perform. It didn''t feel like he was himself. It was completely real, though.


    His dream replayed his second kill.


    He and Acheron waited in the shadows outside the drug den for hours until a lone figure came stumbling out. The man passed inches away from Cyrus, drenched in the smell of cigarettes and booze and oozing a twitchy sort of energy that was just tangible. He walked along the side of the house into the darkest corner of the nearly nonexistent yard.


    The street was deserted. Inside, the faint beat of a techno song reverberated from the house. Acheron, just above a whisper, said, "They won''t notice. And even if someone did..."


    The demon was as black as night, the only visible features being his eyes: two red pinpoints in the darkness. Beside him, Cyrus looked more like a little boy, his shoulders hunched and at full height only reaching the other man''s chest.


    In a voice that could cut through steel, Acheron said, "No one believes a druggie."


    Cyrus watched himself, disconnected from the scene, as he pulled the ceremonial dagger from his pocket. Some of the priest''s blood was still clinging to the hilt; a dozen washes hadn''t scraped the last of it away.


    The crackhead had dropped his pants, relieving himself in the grass. Cyrus waited as the man zipped up and turned, shuffling by again. He stuck out his foot and the man went sprawling without a sound.


    Still in a stupor, he barely struggled. Cyrus was on him in an instant, pressing the man''s body back down into the concrete. He could feel his bones. He could hear his heart thumping erratically. And when he put the knife to the tender skin of the man''s throat, he felt his blood. It had given way to his knife so easily, like that neck had been made for the gutting.


    The man shook beneath him, but had nowhere near the strength it would take to throw Cyrus off. He choked on the blood, fingers spasming in vain at his slit throat. And then the dream went off the rails, showing him something he didn''t remember. Something that hadn''t happened, when until that point, it had been a picture-perfect reenactment.


    Gurgling over the blood, the man said, "What goes around....comes back...."


    He twitched several more times in Cyrus''s grasp before going still. The dream melted away and he awoke on the floor, tangled in his blanket.


    The second thing he noticed: shards of glass were strewn about the floor, the mattress, and he even picked some out of his hair. The bedroom door opened, and both he and Acheron slowly turned their gaze upward to the empty base where his ceiling light had used to be. It had shattered in his sleep.


    "You''re getting stronger," Acheron murmured, voice as cold as it had been in the dream. That''s all he said before leaving the room again.


    Cyrus stared at the remnants of the light, still picking pieces out of his hair. A sliver or two lodged in his skin but he didn''t register the pain.


    Beyond any sort of manifestations of his energy that deterred people from him, Cyrus had never affected the physical world. After his first kill, he''d been able to put Delilah at ease, if only temporarily. After his second, he was¡ªwhat, breaking shit now?


    He picked up a particularly large shard of glass, throwing his whole focus into cracking it; nothing happened. Strong emotions were triggering these responses, not any exertion of control over himself and his surroundings. He had been desperate with Delilah; the dream must have really shaken him, even in unconsciousness.


    Cyrus threw the shard across the room. Hitting the wall, it finally broke into pieces.


    He had a few bones to pick with Acheron. For all the previous day, he''d been waiting for the wrath he''d been promised to rain down on him. Maybe keeping Tuesday from his knowledge didn''t constitute a lie. Whatever the reason, Acheron didn''t touch upon the subject. Then he saw what Cyrus just did and can''t even talk it over with him.


    He was grateful for Acheron, that would never change. He had given Cyrus a home when his own parents abandoned him; he gave him community and a purpose. But there were things Acheron was keeping from him.


    He wasn''t surprised by Cyrus''s newfound abilities. He knew something was off about Tuesday, but just had to be cryptic and conveniently avoid truly answering Cyrus''s question.


    Cyrus stood and squared his shoulders. It was time to confront him.


    He found Acheron in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and staring at the ceiling. In one hand he held a steaming mug of coffee, black¡ªthe only thing Cyrus had seen him drink beyond the orange juice he''d set out the morning before. Acheron didn''t acknowledge him until Cyrus cleared his throat.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Acheron sighed through his nose, pinching the bridge of it and regarded him with a scowl. "Well?"


    Caught under that piercing stare, Cyrus fought the urge to squirm. Something rose up in him, fueling him with the courage necessary to let out a barrage of questions, out loud.


    "What am I?"


    "You know there''s nothing to compare," Acheron said around a drink of coffee. "Something soulless."


    "But what does that mean? What''s a soul matter for?"


    He narrowed his eyes at Cyrus but answered, albeit in a clipped tone. "Above all else, it serves as a safeguard against magic."


    That made enough sense. Humans, and even Bune and Moloch, had souls, and none of them could compare to Cyrus or Acheron.


    Cyrus knew how Acheron had come into being¡ªleftover negative energy from a collection of human deaths mingled together and created him. That''s how demons were formed. Acheron had never held back that much information from him, at least. He also knew what Bune and Moloch were: not demons, as they had been born, though somewhere over a century before. Ancient power bound them to their eternal youth and energy from souls kept them going. Reapers, that''s what they were¡ªfated to kill in order to survive. With all that in mind, how had Cyrus turned out how he was? And what the hell was Tuesday?


    Cyrus could tell he was edging close to a line Acheron wouldn''t allow him to cross, but asked anyway, "Does Tuesday have a soul?"


    Acheron drained his mug, letting it clatter in the sink. "Yes. Now stop with this incessant chatter." He strode out from the room.


    Cyrus sensed he was telling the truth, so he really was an outcast. The person he connected with most was still leagues away from whatever he was.


    And Acheron was still holding back.


    He wasn''t about to give Cyrus any of the answers he truly wanted. Cyrus would have to dig them up himself.


    He started with the one he thought would be somewhat easy to find.


    Cyrus hiked to the nearest subway station and hopped the train to Queens. From there, it was only a couple blocks to an internet cafe. With no access to it at home, he''d quickly learned where to go when he wanted to be updated on current events.


    There was one station empty. For a moment, he focused on his breathing, hyper aware of the people so close on either side. Acheron had been right; Cyrus was on his way to becoming a junkie. His first thought was of the faint energy he felt coming from his neighbors. He forced himself to remember he couldn''t get greedy.


    He couldn''t play God.


    It didn''t matter how powerful he felt in the moment. Cockiness equalled a death sentence; Cyrus may have been the black sheep there, but he could die just like anyone else. He wasn''t invincible.


    Gritting his teeth, Cyrus launched a search engine and typed in PASTOR HALE, NEW YORK CITY.


    It brought up several results, but one picture caught his eye: a man in his forties with blonde hair and the same greyish eyes as Tuesday. Cyrus clicked the link.


    It took him to the page of the Cross Fellowship Church. He remembered Tuesday saying the name now, but it wasn''t familiar beyond that. Scanning it over, Cyrus got the impression it was one of the biggest churches in the area.


    That probably explained Acheron''s expression when Tuesday told him about her father. Churches like this were the biggest contender with their own teachings. They preached to the masses not to be tempted by sin¡ªand basically everything Acheron believed in had to be foul in the eyes of the Lord.


    He sat there for a few minutes, mulling it all over. Cyrus had no desire to return home. Acheron hadn''t stopped him from leaving, and was likely deep in whatever business he had at the compound, but going back to a empty house wasn''t any more appealing.


    It occurred to him there was nothing stopping him from seeing Tuesday. He couldn''t deny he was drawn to her, just as Acheron had observed; something had snapped in him when Acheron said she''d make a strong addition. He felt very, well he couldn''t put a finger on it¡ªeither protective or possessive of her.


    He wanted one thing to be his. And this thing, he didn''t want to let a demon anywhere near it.


    But could he keep his personal life separate from his other side? Cyrus had no idea; he''d never had anything ''personal'' before.


    All of it didn''t matter. He already made his decision five minutes before.


    Cyrus didn''t have a phone. He had no way of contacting her.


    But he knew where he might find her. Jotting down the address¡ªit was there in Queens¡ªCyrus made his leave.


    ¡ì


    She was sitting with her head bowed, hands clasped and lips moving silently. Cyrus stood at the back of the church, forgetting how to move his legs. He looked between the girl and the life-size crucifix affixed to the opposite wall.


    Jesus stared down at him morosely.


    It felt like a signal to turn back. He didn''t belong here. It''s not that Cyrus thought God would smite him down¡ªhe didn''t buy into the whole pearly gates thing¡ªbut the things that made him different felt accentuated here.


    It felt like there was a spotlight trained on him, but it was actually rather dark in the church. Cyrus weighed each step he took forward, all the while thinking he should turn back.


    But Tuesday''s energy tugged at him, and he had no choice but to answer the call.


    He settled beside her in the pew, staring up at the cross. Cyrus felt the girl flinch beside him, then heard her sharp intake of breath.


    When she spoke, he heard the smile on her voice, even though she spoke in a whisper. "Hey, stranger. Will you pray with me?"


    Cyrus didn''t respond. She took his hand in hers, and he jumped like it was a live wire. Being near her had nothing on touching her¡ªher energy was like electricity, and he thought he liked being shocked.


    Tuesday bowed her head again, but Cyrus just watched her. Her lips moved again, but this time she didn''t pray silently.


    "Dear Lord," she began quietly, mindful of the others in nearby pews. She began to list off names, asking God to protect those in heaven. Cyrus was more focused on the feeling of his hand in hers until she said, "Take care of Cyrus''s parents. Take care of James."


    He ripped his hand away, scooting a few inches away on the bench. After a moment, Tuesday followed until again, there was virtually no space between them. She placed a hand on his shoulder.


    "It''s okay to be sad sometimes, you know," she murmured. "It''s okay to be vulnerable."


    Cyrus''s next breath ached in his chest. Was it okay to feel nothing? He wanted to know what she''d say to that, but was unable to voice it.


    "You fit right in," she whispered, nodding to the other silent churchgoers.


    Cyrus didn''t think silence was fitting for a church. Faith was a messy thing. Faith was accepting pain and somehow even celebrating it. It was the the blood he spilled and the fact that none of it mattered, not in the big picture.


    That was the thing about Tuesday, though. She found the brightness in all the dark places.


    Even him.


    His body felt very heavy then. Cyrus shrugged her hand from his shoulder, debating whether it was time he go. Tuesday bit her lip, letting her hair fall in front of her face. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he changed course¡ªand rested his head against her shoulder.


    They sat like that for a long time.

 7 § False Idols

    For several days, Cyrus fell into a downright mundane routine with Tuesday. When she wasn''t in school, they roamed the city, avoiding both of their own homes. She didn''t explain why hers was off-limits, and he didn''t mind. It took his mind off all the responsibilities and chaos he normally had to shoulder.


    He kind of liked feeling normal.


    Of course, that didn''t mean much. Cyrus still had the inclination to take the girl apart like a toy and see how the gears turned inside...but something always held him back.


    They''d been talking about something inconsequential - well, she had been talking, and he had not really listened. Cyrus didn''t remember what the one-sided conversation entailed, but it still set him up for a culture shock when he was confronted by Moloch upon getting home.


    Thanks to his human background, Moloch resembled a normal man well enough. His trademark grin always set Cyrus on edge, though, and the appearance of the reaper in his kitchen didn''t help.


    He was debating whether he could slip past undetected when Moloch turned to face him, the jagged smile already slashing a slit across his face. "Well? How was it?"


    Cyrus just looked at him.


    "I hear you''ve had your second time," Moloch elaborated, arching his eyebrows suggestively. "I still remember mine. Lord, did she scream and scream." He threw his head back, laughing.


    "Mine didn''t," Cyrus said just above a whisper, pretty much above that day''s quota for social interaction. Really, he just didn''t have the same taste for theatrics as Moloch did.


    "Pity. And another thing--" Moloch paused, craning his head to peer down the hall. He said the next part in a hushed tone. "That old bat should pull the stick out of his ass. In my day, we could take anyone we wanted."


    Cyrus just nodded at this, edging into the hall. He had begun his retreat when Acheron appeared in his path.


    Acheron regarded him for a brief moment before saying, "There is a group discussion tonight. Do not miss it," before gliding into the kitchen. Cyrus heard the sound of Acheron''s voice continue, smoother and darker than Moloch''s but couldn''t tell what they were saying. He retreated into his room until outside his bedroom window, the darkness rose and swallowed the last remnants of daytime.


    Cyrus trekked to the compound alone, seeing as the house was empty again when he came out. As was more often than not those days, blood was on his mind. The branches breaking underfoot resembled snapping bones; faint bird calls in the distance were a cacophony of screams. He found he had much more control over himself now that his need had been so recently sated, but how long would it last?


    Was he only a slave to his urges?


    The room he''d killed the priest in was cleared of all evidence, left bare but populated by all of Second Advent''s members. They sat cross-legged, packed in tight and shoulder to shoulder. He took a seat next to Delilah, who shivered but offered him a small smile.


    The only one not sitting was Acheron, who stood in the center of the gathering, watching as a few last-minute stragglers came in the door. Then he clasped his hands together and said, "Tonight we have an important discussion on our hands. Many of you have heard it before, but we have some newer members that have not had the privilege." At this, he inclined his head in Delilah''s direction.


    Acheron took a moment to meet each member''s eyes. It took several minutes, and the room stayed dead silent until he spoke again.


    "The God you once worshipped," he began, pausing for the briefest of seconds, "was created to keep you in line. Step out of line and burn for eternity."


    Cyrus noticed Acheron''s gaze flickered to him on that last line. Then he was gazing upon the others again; clearing his throat, he said in a lighter tone, "Convenient incentive, but the truth is nothing waits for you on the other side."


    Glancing to his side, Cyrus saw Delilah was completely entranced in the speech, leaning her entire body forward slightly as if to get as close as possible to Acheron.


    "Souls cannot be created or destroyed. They are, however, recycled." Acheron spread his arms to either side, gesturing to the entire room. "What you perceive as your own consciousness fails to exist upon your death. The slate is cleared. This does not have to mean all hope is lost."Stolen story; please report.


    Kneeling until he was eye-level with everyone, Acheron continued, "Make your mark on this world while you still can. Man created God: What is stopping Man from recreating this world in his own image?"


    Acheron let everyone absorb this, again meeting Cyrus''s eyes. Still watching him, he said, "The process of letting go of these deeply ingrained beliefs is not easy, I know. It is all you have ever known. Let us open the floor now and share what made you first question your faith."


    Delilah half-rose a timid hand. After Acheron nodded at her, she said, "He took my child. He let him die alone in agony."


    More hands shot in the air and more stories ensued. Any tragedy under the sun was suspect. The last speaker of the night was another of the newer recruits, a slender woman with mousy hair. Jane, Josie--Cyrus couldn''t quite remember her name. "Children are supposed to be God''s most precious gift. My husband and I tried for many years until we discovered I was infertile. He left me."


    Acheron''s eyes stayed on the woman for several seconds, and Cyrus felt a strange coldness seep into the room. It seemed to drill deep into his being, and he felt the members on either side of him shudder.


    Then it was gone, replaced by an easy-going smile. "Well, that will do for tonight. Everyone back to your quarters."


    As Cyrus rose and everyone began trickling out of the room, Acheron gestured for him to stay back. When the room had emptied, he ushered him out as well and they began the hike back. "Take a moment to steady yourself. Ten minutes of meditation, and then we must resume your training."


    Already his eyelids had begun to droop, and the idea of staying awake any longer was less than appealing. They never trained so late at night. The peak of alertness for any given person was around noon, give or take several hours, and they took use of the high mental clarity.


    "Perhaps you should have thought of that when you were off running about with the human," Acheron said icily.


    Cyrus did not dare respond. All week, he''d been allowed to come and go as he pleased with not so much as a bitter look from his mentor; then again, he hadn''t seen him much at all. Cyrus had figured his freedom was a given.


    He did as he was told, clearing his mind and allowing his breaths to slow and deepen. Thoughts poked at him, begging for his attention, but Cyrus did not let them through. He met with Acheron on the floor of the den.


    "I noted the White woman was more comfortable near you," he said upon Cyrus''s arrival. "Well done."


    Cyrus thought about the flickering and shattering lights.


    "That''s a mere stain on the plethora of things you are capable of. The power released solely upon your birth, for example--" Acheron allowed the smallest of smiles to dance on his lips as if this were a fond memory. "You shook the whole damn world."


    Whatever pride was in his voice left then.


    "You are capable of making your own decisions now. But be aware of what you''ve been working towards. Keep sight of our mission."


    After that, Acheron did much less talking. For several hours he coached Cyrus on affecting the physical world consciously. By the end, he''d broken out in sweat and hadn''t even managed to break a measly pencil.


    "Control. That''s your problem," Acheron commented after calling it quits for the night. "You feel as though you must maintain it at all times and costs. But have you ever thought about what would be so terrible if you lost it?"


    He left Cyrus alone to ponder this. He fell under sleep''s comforting, dreamless embrace, but had a rather rude awakening.


    For the second time in the past twelve hours, Moloch was in his home--this time standing over his mattress. "Get up," he said grimly.


    As Cyrus scrambled into clean clothes, Moloch tapped his foot and glanced between him and the door. As soon as Cyrus had gotten his shirt over his head, Moloch took him by the arm and ushered him into the kitchen.


    Acheron stood there, blacker than night itself. He seemed to be made of shadows; they hung under and in his eyes, and the very air around him seemed heavier. With Moloch still holding onto Cyrus, the demon spoke. "Did you leave your room last night?" In response Cyrus projected back his confusion, which only spurred Acheron''s anger. "Answer the question, boy."


    Cyrus shook his head, unable to string together coherent thought.


    Acheron released a deep breath, leaning against the counter; the vise-like grip on Cyrus''s arm lifted. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Acheron muttered, "I did not mean to doubt your integrity, but something has happened."


    Looking between Moloch and Acheron, Cyrus couldn''t read either of their expressions. His frustration was about to boil over when Acheron said, "One of the members disappeared sometime in the night. Her bunkmates explained she went to bed as usual, but when they awoke, she was gone."


    Gone. Gone, as in, left? No one had left before. They didn''t have a reason to want to. What did the outside world hold for any of them? They''d been drawn to this place for a purpose, and abandoning the community was the equivalent of turning your back on humanity.


    The heaviness still in the air alerted him to the idea there was something even darker at play. It took Cyrus a moment to connect the thoughts: had Acheron really thought he had something to do with it? That he had killed her?


    It didn''t make any sense. For the most part, Cyrus was open with his thoughts and feelings. Beyond the Tuesday incident, Cyrus had never deliberately hidden anything, Acheron was aware of his every impulse.


    "Who?" he finally asked.


    "Not that it matters," Acheron said coldly, "but Janice Gladwin."


    Jane, Julie--Janice. That was the name he couldn''t recall earlier for the infertile girl. A sourness settled in Cyrus''s stomach as he remembered the look Acheron had given her. Had he been imagining it?


    When he was able to tamp down those thoughts securely, Cyrus met Acheron''s eyes. "Has anyone looked for her?"


    With a flourish of his hand, Acheron replied, "She''s long gone. Make yourself acceptable; I will be making an announcement at the compound shortly."


    Then he did the thing he seemed to be best at lately: leave.

 8 § Ashes to Ashes

    "There is no cause for alarm. We may only assume she left of her own accord, in which case she is weak. Janice Gladwin was unworthy of our cause and it will be in everyone''s best interest to forget her. You are dismissed," Acheron concluded. Everyone but Cyrus filed out of the compound''s basement.


    Without looking up from his place in the center of the room, Acheron said, "You may leave now."


    Limbs locked in place, Cyrus did not move. He just watched his mentor, who seemed to be waiting for him to exit before¡ªwhat?


    Eyes blazing like lit coals, Acheron said, "I have business to attend to, boy, and you need no part in it."


    Cyrus wasn''t backing down that easy. He had trusted Acheron his entire life: did that not mean anything? Was he not entitled to some kind of answer?


    Acheron wasn''t messing around, either; he stared Cyrus down until any normal person would have wilted under that sneer.


    He wasn''t a normal person.


    One side of Acheron''s mouth curled up, though the smile lacked any humor. His eyes were still cold and calculating. "You think you''re ready to walk in my shoes? So be it."


    He was wearing the same jet-black suit he never seemed to part with, and from the side pocket he produced a pocketknife. Cyrus watched, frozen, as Acheron undid the top few buttons of his suit and pushed aside the fabric. When he exposed his bare shoulder, Cyrus had to stifle a gasp.


    Acheron''s otherwise smooth, tanned skin was marred by a latticework of scars. They covered a thick strip along his shoulder, staining it white.


    Just as Cyrus could bleed, he never doubted Acheron was able to be hurt; nonetheless, it was hard to imagine. In complete silence he watched as Acheron flicked open the pocketknife and opened a two-inch gash atop all the other scars; blood welled to the surface, a single thin stream trickling down his forearm.


    Acheron stowed away the knife and used two fingers to smear away the blood before tracing them in a circular motion upon his left palm. He buttoned his suit back up and gestured Cyrus to come forward.


    "Your turn."


    He swallowed, hard, but knew there was no getting out of this without losing his pride or testing the demon''s patience. Cyrus crept forward. Acheron seized his arm, holding it in place while he made a similar cut on Cyrus''s own shoulder. He managed to hold back a wince or any other sign of his discomfort.


    "It doesn''t matter where the blood comes from, but at least this is easy to hide," Acheron explained as he used his fingers like a paintbrush, swirling Cyrus''s blood around on his palm. When Acheron pulled back, Cyrus saw he''d drawn an upside-down pentagram.


    "I''ve been around the world and back and never boarded a ship or plane. All it takes is a small sacrifice¡ª" At this, Acheron nodded to the blood on their hands. "And somewhere full of pain."


    He turned his eyes to the center of the room, kneeling to the floor and placing his bloodied hand to it, symbol facing the concrete. "This place may look empty but the damage you''ve inflicted upon a human soul here left it''s mark. Residual negative energy, that''s what fuels my travel."


    Reaching out with his other hand, Acheron looked at Cyrus expectantly. "Demons have free roam of anywhere dark, and they can bring along a passenger. Have you changed your mind?"


    It took a moment to remember how to shake his head, then Cyrus joined Acheron in a crouch on the floor. Acheron pressed his bare hand into Cyrus''s bloodied one, murmured something under his breath, and the room began to tilt.


    Cyrus watched the bare concrete walls melt away until the sight made him dizzy. With his eyes clenched, he could still see vague flashes of light dance outside his eyelids. Cyrus tried to reach a hand up to block it, but couldn''t feel his limbs. Then came the sensation of an elevator dropping, multiplied by a hundred; he could swear he felt as his organs nearly fell out his body. Wind tore at his clothes, took his breath away, but didn''t make a sound.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    When Cyrus was able to open his eyes again, he saw he was laying flat on his back, limbs outstretched as if he''d fallen. Above him, Acheron stood, smoothing his suit down without so much as a flyaway hair. "Get up," he said, "quickly now."


    Cyrus stumbled to his feet, staggering a few steps. Acheron caught him by the arm, letting go when Cyrus regained his balance.


    "There," Acheron said just above a whisper. "Look over there."


    Turning his attention to his surroundings, it took a moment for Cyrus to absorb it all. They were surrounded by trees marching into oblivion in all directions, trees that towered dozens of feet above them and curved to blot out nearly all sunlight. Everything in Cyrus''s wake was grey and army green. The air was chilled and restricting, smothering him with a blanket of coldness that seeped deep into his bones. Cyrus didn''t know what he was supposed to be looking at; then he caught a flicker of movement through the trees.


    Something to his other side caught his eye, and Cyrus whipped his head that way to see more movement in the distance; he couldn''t make out what it was. A branch snapped and echoed throughout the forest, practically the only sound. When Cyrus turned in the direction of it, he saw yet another blur of movement.


    "They''re attracted to anything cold and dark and feed on pain," Acheron whispered beside him. "So this is the perfect place to find them: Aokigahara, where hundreds of people have come to die."


    As he spoke, a chill ran down Cyrus''s spine. He strained to make out what he was seeing in the near-darkness.


    Acheron said, "Reapers. These are reapers, or what''s left of them."


    From what Cyrus knew about reapers from Bune and Moloch, it took another demon to sire them, and it took immense power. He couldn''t connect those ideas to the many forms flashing by around him.


    "You think I''m the only demon out there, boy? You''re off by several hundred." After saying this, Acheron fell quiet. This quietness was different; Cyrus could feel the tension in the air like a live wire, and noted all of his hair was standing on end.


    Behind Cyrus, something rustled. He spun around to come face to face with a pair of wide, yellowish eyes just several feet away. He tried to scramble back but Acheron''s hand landed against his back, keeping him in place. When Cyrus shot a glance behind him, he saw more of those terrible eyes had joined the first, forming a circle around them.


    He counted eleven pairs, and each one was devoid of anything but of a feral wildness.


    One of them stepped through the trees and Cyrus could finally make out its entire body. Everything that had been human about it sagged off the skeleton¡ªgreyish, mottled flesh¡ªand the face was cavernous, sunken in and accentuating the crazed eyes. The mouth snapped open and shut and the hands reached forward with long, jagged nails. Perhaps the worst part was, the last scraps of clothing still clinging to the body were caked in blood and viscera.


    Voice dropped even lower and carefully monotone, Acheron said, "This is what happens to them when they take in too many souls."


    The reaper, or whatever it was now, in front of them took a tentative step forward. From behind came the sounds of shuffling feet and leaves crunching. Cyrus watched the main ghoul sink into a crouch, curling its claws.


    Then his ears began to ring. It slowly increased in frequency until Cyrus had to clamp his hands over his ears, which did absolutely nothing against the sound. Beside him, Acheron stood deathly still, eyes glowing brighter than their usual crimson.


    Making a hoarse, gravelly sound deep in its throat, the monster in front of them pounced¡ª


    And sailed overhead, landing with a thump on one of the creatures behind them. The two reapers let out unnatural shrieks, raking their claws over each other and rolling around so fast they were practically just a blur. All around, the rest of the reapers followed suit, attacking each other.


    Gasping, unable to catch his breath, Cyrus turned to Acheron to see a tiny smirk playing on his lips.


    Too many thoughts were fighting to come out on top in his head just like the feuding beasts. Acheron was somehow able to make sense of them and said, "I merely put a suggestion in their heads. Humans are more difficult, and usually it plays out as temptations; they still have their free will about them to revolt against the command. But these reapers are too far gone to have any self-control."


    All the while, the sounds of snapping jaws and unearthly screams ensued. Unable to look away, Cyrus watched as the beasts tore each other apart, leaving twitching, bloody skeletons in their wake. When only one beast was left standing, it took its own claws to its chest and curled them inwards, yanking out a chunk of flesh.


    In its own hand, the creature''s greyish heart gave a few last pumps before going still; the reaper crashed to the ground.


    Bodies. Bodies lay mutilated in every direction. It was a bit much even for him, and Cyrus''s stomach twisted in knots. He couldn''t fathom what had called for all this carnage.


    "Taking out the trash," said Acheron. "That is all I have done."


    Cyrus couldn''t disagree there. He tried to imagine these creatures roaming free to stalk the night and terrorize any unlucky, nearby soul¡ªand shuddered.


    Before Cyrus could wonder what would be done with all the carcasses, each one began to shimmer very slightly. It looked like hot pavement did on a particularly hot summer''s day, how it seemed to warp and wave. Then each body crumbled before his very eyes. Every shred of skin molted off and disintegrated; the bones blackened and broke off into undetectable pieces.


    "Ashes to ashes," Acheron murmured.


    Dust to dust.

 9 § Of Maggots and Men

    In the space occupied by eleven corpses just moments before, Acheron laid his palm in the grass. With the blood of fresh wounds, both he and Cyrus had repainted the pentagrams. He attempted to brace himself, thinking that since he knew what to expect, this second trip through darkness would be easier.


    It wasn''t.


    Again Cyrus''s stomach dropped; again, he couldn''t breathe or move his limbs. He tried to keep his eyes open this time, but a searing light blinded him.


    He landed on his back just like before, but this time he felt the impact. First Cyrus''s body was tumbling through empty space and time, then a whistling sound rang in his ears¡ªand he landed with a smack on the concrete. It knocked whatever breath he''d managed to maintain out him. Cyrus curled in on himself, every limb aching.


    When he was able to pull himself together, he saw Acheron was standing over him: eyebrows raised, arms crossed. "Not so easy, hmm?"


    Cyrus''s mind was already off the pain, the images of the corpses trapezing through his head. "How many times," he said, gasping, "have you done that?"


    Acheron knew he was referring his casual slaughter of nearly a dozen reapers, not his strange form of travel. "Lost count somewhere in the 18th century."


    Cyrus detected a weariness in his voice he hadn''t heard before. He rose to his feet, reaching out with all his power and trying to interpret what he was feeling from the demon.


    Exhaustion. The killing spree had taken a toll on him.


    "Darkness never sleeps but power isn''t free," Acheron muttered before exiting the room.


    Cyrus dropped back to the ground, crossing his legs and willing his racing thoughts to slow. Acheron had been holding back on him; who knew what other things the demon was capable of? What things Cyrus himself might be capable of?


    Jealousy clenched its cold fingers around his heart. Acheron preached moderation in Cyrus''s kills, but had taken out a horde of beasts without a second thought. Cyrus had seen first hand, however, the consequences. He was also quite sure Acheron would never let on to the true extent of his torment, and that he had probably been much worse for wear.


    Cyrus was still drunk on the power and possibilities and skimmed quickly over anything relating to consequences. He''d never imagined something as strange and wonderful as travelling through spots of negative energy. He wanted another taste of the otherworldly.


    Staring at the sconces on the walls, Cyrus cleared his mind and focused on the flickering candlelight. He let go of all expectations, simply watching the flames and imagining they had minds of their own. He took in a deep breath, visualizing the borrowed soul energy coursing through his veins. Tapping into the power he knew was all his to begin with, Cyrus blew out his breath¡ª


    And every flame sputtered, wavered and died, leaving Cyrus in the darkness with his triumph.


    ¡ì


    It felt like several ages had passed since before his demonic field trip, but it was only an hour past noon. Cyrus knew by the time he reached Tuesday''s school in Brooklyn she''d be getting out of class and was halfway out the door when Acheron cleared his throat behind him.


    Cyrus slowly spun on his heel, uneager to face his mentor. Heat rushed to his face. Had he ever even blushed before? There was something very human about it, and this only deepened his discomfort.


    "Heading out to consort with the Hale girl?" Acheron''s voice twisted around the name, adding unnecessary malice to that single syllable. It didn''t require a verbal response. Acheron let a thousand implications hang in the air for several moments, looking Cyrus up and down slowly. He sensed they had reached a point of no return, but had no clue what that meant. Then he said, "Very well."


    Acheron dug in his pocket, pulling out a shiny leather wallet and extending it to Cyrus. "While in the city please make sure to stock up on some imperishables; the compound is running low. This shall cover it."


    Cyrus''s first thought: Acheron hadn''t said ''please'' in his entire life.


    His second: why was he being let off so easy? Acheron''s constantly flipping moods were going to give Cyrus premature grey hairs.


    He gave the wallet a once-over before accepting it, watching as Acheron''s eyes followed its path into Cyrus''s pocket. Giving a slight nod, Cyrus slipped out the door, shutting it between them before taking a deep, shaky breath.


    He could wither his whole life away wondering what the hell was Acheron''s deal; repeating this to himself in a silent mantra, Cyrus trudged his way to the station. The whole ride to Brooklyn, he felt the wallet weighing him down like it was made of lead.


    There were two distinct sides of Brooklyn as far as schooling was concerned: the tiny campus crumbling in on itself catering to the slums, and the pristine white-pillared building for the city''s better-off. The latter is where Cyrus had met with Tuesday several times now, waiting like an obedient hound at the end of the stairs. Question was, was Cyrus really the dutiful mutt obeying the whims of a master--or was he the one holding the leash?


    He thought he had his answer when a flood of students broke loose from the banks of doors, revealing Tuesday, who greeted him with a bright and ready smile. Muscle memory; it had come so easily. Cyrus hadn''t needed to do anything but stand there.


    "Hey you! How the heck are ya?"


    He took a moment to absorb the sight of her as the trademark warmth of her soul enveloped him. Her uniform consisted of a white blouse tucked into a plaid, pleated skirt, but Tuesday didn''t need the excuse of the Catholic school to wear her cross above it all. Seeing it barely phased Cyrus any longer; she didn''t pester him on atheism and he didn''t try to school her in the teachings of a cold and uncaring planet. It was a good balance.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    Tuesday was waiting for a response, and for once, Cyrus felt willing to give her one. Excitement spurred his tongue as he replayed everything he had witnessed just a few hours before--explaining it as if it were just a dream. He had no one else to gush to about the experience and he certainly couldn''t tell her the whole truth. Cyrus felt easier around her with every passing day and speaking aloud felt a little less like drowning then.


    When he finished relaying his ''dream'', he turned to see Tuesday had stopped walking a few paces behind, staring at him with wide eyes. She opened her mouth but nothing left it for several seconds. "That sounds...incredibly vivid. And terrifying. I''m sorry you had such a bad dream."


    Cyrus bit back the first response that leaped to his tongue: what was so terrible about it? Sometimes he forgot how totally and perfectly human Tuesday really was. If she knew what really was going through his head...


    He went mute again, answering Tuesday with slight shakes or nods of his head if anything at all. His thoughts drifted to an alternate reality, one where he was free to be himself--to figure out who that even was. Cyrus was dragged back to the here-and-now when Tuesday stopped walking again and he nearly crashed into her.


    They were standing in front of a stretch of townhouses. Twirling the cross in her fingers, Tuesday said, "I figured we could hang here for a bit." The end of the statement rose into a question.


    Cyrus shrugged one shoulder and followed her up the steps to a door that looked identical to the rest. Photos of Tuesday in between her parents hung on the wall in between framed biblical quotes. His eyes lingered a little too long on the one that read ''Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour''.


    From around the corner, a man emerged; Cyrus instantly recognized him from the family portraits and his internet search. There was Pastor Hale, in the flesh but dressed in plainclothes. In person the greyish eyes he shared with his daughter appeared blacker. More importantly, the sensation Cyrus was used to from Tuesday was not genetic. He could feel some kind of energy emanating from the man, but it was a thousand times more dull--and it was a creeping, staticky feeling. Cyrus could not interpret what it meant, as was the case with most humans.


    Beside him, Tuesday flinched and said, "Oh, hey Dad--I thought you were going to be up at the church until late." Her voice had risen an octave.


    A smile spread like honey across the man''s face but somehow didn''t reach his eyes. "Decided I would rather spend my time with my family today. Are you going to introduce me to your friend here?"


    Did Cyrus imagine the emphasis Pastor Hale put on ''friend''?


    Tuesday made a quick, shaky introduction and ushered Cyrus down the hall. He felt the man''s gaze burning a hole in the back of his head and risked a glance back--


    Pastor Hale was already looking away, eyes lingering on what could be seen of Tuesday''s legs under the tinted pantyhose.


    Tuesday leaned against her bedroom door as soon as it was shut, biting her lip. "Anyways, uh, this is my room...obviously."


    Cyrus turned his attention to his surroundings. The walls were a soft, buttery color, like the first rays of sunlight spreading across a new morning sky. If her aura had a color, it would match those walls. A bookcase took up almost the entirety of the southern wall, every inch packed with tattered-looking paperbacks. On the opposite hung several water color paintings side by side, each one darker than the next. He studied them closer, making out the vague shapes of mountainsides and starry skies and towering ocean waves.


    Twisting her cross again, Tuesday said quietly, "You ever wanna get the hell out of here?"


    Cyrus met her eyes, which were growing glossier by the second. She jutted her chin at the paintings, clearing her throat and saying, "I guess I''m not a city kind of girl, you know? I want to see the world, not corner myself in it."


    She fell quiet for several moments and sunk down onto her yellow bedspread. Cyrus followed suit, limbs stiff, back straight as a rod. Not more than an inch away from Tuesday, he was painfully aware of how her energy welcome him in like an embrace. He was sure she felt this to some degree as well--but didn''t put a stop to it.


    By now he saw how Tuesday must be reading into his actions and knew he could never feel anything for her in return beyond a scientific-like interest at best and, at worst, a bloodthirsty need. But Cyrus was a selfish creature and couldn''t bring himself to voice those concerns.


    The girl gave a nervous laugh, saying "Aaaanyways..." and throwing a light punch at his shoulder. Cyrus couldn''t hold back a wince as his skin lit up in a prickling pain.


    "Oh, c''mon, that did not hurt--" Before Cyrus could react, Tuesday was lifting back the sleeve of his t-shirt. Her voice cut off in a gasp as the two inflamed slits in his flesh were revealed. "What happened?"


    Even if he could have known what to say, Cyrus''s mouth went dry. He yanked the sleeve down and rose.


    Tuesday began to speak before she cut herself off again, eyes growing even wider and out of focus. When she looked up again, all color had left her face. "The dream. Didn''t you say you cut yourself in your dream?"


    Cyrus turned his back on her, reaching for the doorknob. The sense of deja vu nearly knocked him off his feet, thinking back to the day she showed up on his doorstep--and how his first reaction was to escape. His mind shut down and all he could follow were his instincts, and they were screaming at him to get out.


    "What are you--Cyrus, wait!"


    He didn''t, already clearing the hall and making his way back into fresh air. Tuesday caught him at the street, saying, "Cyrus, jesus just stop--okay!"


    Hearing the ring of acceptance in her voice, he paused long enough for her to catch her breath. She continued softly, "I understand if the whole dream thing wasn''t real. If you were just covering up for your uncle...well, you don''t have to tell me. I''ll drop it, okay, just don''t go."


    The shaking in his limbs subsided. Of course she wasn''t going to jump to the conclusion Cyrus''s ''dream'' had been real; the assumption he was being abused still came as a shock, but it was better than the alternative. Swallowing hard, he turned to look back at her, not able to meet her eyes. Instead, he stared at her beaten up tennis shoes; something was scrawled in sharpie along the base of one shoe, but he couldn''t make out what it said.


    "I have to go to the store," he said quietly.


    "Let me drive you," Tuesday replied.


    After just a moment''s hesitation, Cyrus gave a curt nod and followed her to her car. The ride there was dead silent, a thousand questions hanging in the air between them. He became aware of the wallet weighing him down again, and pulled it out from his pocket just as Tuesday parked outside the grocery store. His suspicion at Acheron''s intent poked at his every thought until he finally flipped the wallet open--


    And saw the face of a very familiar, and quite dead, priest.


    Cyrus''s breath caught in his throat; the world seemed to slow and stall. A ringing began in his ears as he stared at James Crocker''s ID, placed clearly in one fold of the wallet. His thoughts turned indecipherable, a tangle of nonsensical screams.


    Then the world was spinning again, and he was thrust back into reality when Tuesday went deathly still beside him.


    Her eyes were locked on the photo. Her hands went from gripping the steering wheel to a convulsing mess; tears flooded freely down her face. "Tell me there''s a logical reason you have that," Tuesday said, voice emanating the calm before the storm--smooth, low and devoid of emotion.


    Cyrus couldn''t give her what she wanted.


    "Get out," she whispered, each syllable shaking. When Cyrus did not move, she began to scream it--over and over, shrill and at the top of her lungs. "Get out! Getoutgetoutgetout--"


    He fell onto the pavement and watched as Tuesday shifted the car into drive with shaking hands. He knew he should stop her before she killed herself or someone else, but every molecule of his being had frozen.


    Cyrus watched her disappear in a cloud of smoke.

 10 § When the Bough Breaks

    Watching the only thing that had inspired enough emotion in him to lie or question authority leave did something to Cyrus. He could almost feel something snap in him, something in the coldest, darkest reaches of his being.


    The girl had been the only thing from his past that hadn''t abandoned him, the only person interested in treating him like he was¡ªhuman. It had given him some semblance of humanity, just the faintest taste of it.


    Now he was just another monster.


    A light snow began to fall, mingling with the smog and painting the world grey. Grey, like the memory of two accusing eyes haunting him with every step he took. Cyrus''s movements were mechanical as he entered the subway. As soon as he got off, though, he broke into a sprint. Adrenaline and a thousand thoughts he couldn''t quiet pushed him onward until he broke through the door of the house, letting it crash into the wall.


    Acheron was waiting for him.


    A spot of blackness in the otherwise kitchen, from his suit to the shadows swirling in his eyes, he sat calmly at the dining table. Cyrus was gasping for air; Acheron was as still as a corpse and just as lively, watching him with no emotion cracking his porcelain face.


    A heavy feeling invaded his senses then, a certain darkness infiltrating his every pore. It wasn''t from Acheron, Cyrus realized, this darkness was all his own and it hung so strongly in the air it could have smothered them both. The ceiling lamp flickered, an omen Cyrus barely gave notice to.


    Looking at the demon, Cyrus could only think of what he''d taken from him: any chance at normal.


    Acheron''s jaw twitched, the first sign he felt Cyrus''s pain yet. He leaned forward, shadows parting from his face and letting his red eyes gleam to their full, angry potential. "Do you honestly believe an ounce of normalcy runs through your veins?"


    He shoved back from the table, nearly toppling the chair over. Standing to full height, Acheron towered above him, but Cyrus didn''t shrink back.


    "You were distracted," Acheron sneered. "You have the power to raze this world to ash, yet treat that privilege without a dash of respect. And what is she to you if she can''t accept you as you are?"


    Cyrus felt like his entire body was in overdrive. His fists shook, his shoulders quaked; he felt ready to burn the house to the ground. No, he felt ready to kill. The need to take control again, to feel something crumble and die in his bare hands, gripped him.


    Though he was eye-level with the demon''s chest, Cyrus moved forward until he was inches from Acheron''s face, spitting out, "If you don''t help me fix this, I''ll¨C"


    Calmly, with a smile, Acheron challenged, "You''ll what, boy?"


    The lights stopped flickering. The tremors died in Cyrus''s body. He paced backward, still hyperventilating.


    He had to get out of there.


    The thought ran through his head over and over, a panicked mantra. He didn''t know where he''d go; he didn''t know what he''d do. But Cyrus couldn''t stay pinned under Acheron''s cold unflinching gaze for a second longer.


    He hadn''t meant to let Acheron hear any of that, but his mind was too crazed to hold it back. The smile left Acheron''s face, and the room grew darker. The shadows returned, clinging to every curve of the demon''s form.


    "You won''t last a week on your own. I made you¨C"


    A strange emphasis was put on those words. Despite his anger, Cyrus caught on to that and turned it over in his head.


    "I made you who you are today," Acheron elaborated, and Cyrus saw his eye twitch. He quickly continued, "Never forget what I''ve done for you. I gave you a home. I gave you power. I felt your pain and found you that night soaking in a pool of your mother''s blood¨C"


    Acheron''s voice was practically a growl now.


    "I took in something not even a mother could love¨C"


    Cyrus lurched back out the door, running down the street until his chest burned. He collapsed in a ball on the ground and rocked himself back and forth there long enough for the still-falling snow to lightly cover his whole body.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    The cold was comforting.


    Night had fallen. The darkness and the fear of what was lurking in it ran it''s flaws over Cyrus''s spine, but he rose trudged onward. His thoughts went from indecipherable to racing to an idle loop¡ªand he finally focused his attention on one.


    To so easily give up their secret, Acheron must not have been afraid Tuesday would go to the cops. And that poked a new idea at him¡ªwhat if he wasn''t afraid because he was going to take care of it?


    What if Acheron had killed her already?


    Cyrus didn''t think about where his feet were leading him but he ended up on the sidewalk, staring up at Tuesday''s townhouse. He waited, watching the window, where a yellowish light glowed from the hall. He waited until he saw the familiar, slight form pass by.


    Then he shrunk into shadows and disappeared into the night.


    ¡ì


    The next time Cyrus became aware of his surroundings, he was in Brooklyn.


    It took a few hours retracing his steps and discerning one street from the next, but he found the den he''d had his second kill at. No light or sound emanated from the building this time, though Cyrus confirmed it was the spot when he crept up the side and touched the ground.


    A familiarity met his fingers, a dark energy rising from the grass to gently run through his body. It left the taste of cheap booze on his tongue, and for a moment, Cyrus was lulled back in time. A simpler time, when all he knew was the fresh energy of a newly taken soul enveloping him. The need reared up in him, stronger than ever; he had just enough time to contemplate why he hadn''t killed the girl earlier¨Cwhat was stopping him now?¨Cwhen something shattered the silence.


    A low, rumbling growl, followed the a faint shuffling across the pavement.


    Cyrus whirled around, his senses now overwhelmed by something reeking of decay. The pale light from the full moon hanging overhead, the only witness, illuminated the creature.


    Emaciated body, skin clinging to bone and peeling away in places; the crazed yellow eyes of a rogue reaper squinted back at him. Steam seemed to be pouring from it''s gaping maw, which snapped at him. Dragging its feet and nearly tripping over them, the reaper drew closer and all Cyrus could do was watch.


    Shock stopped his heart and fear held him in place. After his first experience with these creatures, Cyrus could look back at the memory and find them intriguing. Now he was alone; he was completely alone, had no idea how to defend himself, and all the while the reaper was coming nearer. The feeling of it''s hot breath on his face choked him; Cyrus struggled to think of what he could do. He hadn''t brought along his knife. He didn''t know how Acheron had drilled into their minds, turning them on each other.


    And though the creature was shaky and awkward, Cyrus had a strong feeling he could not outrun it.


    The reaper crouched and sprung forward in a surprisingly fluid motion, and Cyrus fell backward under its weight, head cracking against the asphalt. The claws pressed to his throat, curling in; Cyrus threw the force of his entire body back into the reaper, trying to throw it off in vain.


    He squeezed his eyes shut, drudging up every dark and angry feeling and projecting it off himself.


    The reaper shuddered atop him, splaying out its limbs and crashing to the ground beside Cyrus. With a screech, it raked a single claw across it''s own throat. Blackish blood gushed from the wound, spraying forward into Cyrus''s skin.


    With one final groan, the reaper went still before crumbling to ash.


    Cyrus shut his eyes again, trying to catch his breath. Did he really¡ªhad he done that?


    "Sorry, kid," a voice said, smooth as silk but cutting through the darkness like a whip. "Close but no cigar."


    A figure was standing several feet away, lurking in the shadows cast by the house. The only thing Cyrus could make out was red eyes, trained on the ground where the reaper had just died. Eyes like blood¡ªbut this wasn''t Acheron.


    Holding his breath, Cyrus appraised the figure, all the while protecting his thoughts this time. It was clear now he was in the presence of a demon, even if he had never met another one beyond Acheron. He felt a prodding sensation in his head, like the beginning of a headache¡ªand imagined throwing up yet another wall between himself and the newcomer, solid and impenetrable.


    "Oh, c''mon," the man purred, "we were having such fun."


    He stepped out from the darkness, staring at the ground again. Cyrus flipped his focus between the demon''s true face¡ªskeletal, red¡ªand the mask it wore. He was just as pale as Acheron, with softer features; he wore ragged jeans and a t-shirt, even as the cold air pricked at his bare skin. He didn''t seem to mind.


    There was something different about this demon. Cyrus couldn''t feel the sinister blackness that Acheron wore; all he felt from the newcomer was a light, peaceful aura. It had nothing on Tuesday''s brightness, but felt more like the middle ground between her and Acheron.


    Cyrus crept back, matching every step the newcomer took towards him. Sure, he''d just saved his life, but this was uncharted territory.


    "Felt that dastardly thing from miles away," the demon said softly, jerking a thumb at the ground. "Haven''t seen one in the city in, oh, a lifetime or two. Must have been drawn to you."


    Cyrus couldn''t help but cock his head at this, though he kept a tight hold on his thoughts.


    "You''re a goddamn spotlight, kid," the other man drawled. "The rumors, well, they had nothing on you..." With a crooked grin, he added, "Although, I thought you''d be a little less...scrawny."


    Rumors? Cyrus let this one thought slip out.


    The man bit his lip, but it did nothing to smother his sly smile. "What, you think you''re the only thing that goes bump in the night?"


    He stopped advancing on Cyrus, stopping and raising an eyebrow, looking him over. "As entertaining as this one-sided conversation is, I really must be on my way. Consider this a favor; I may be coming to collect one sooner or later."


    Cyrus watched, frozen, as the man withdrew a blade from the waistband of his jeans. He slit his palm open, dabbed a finger in the resulting blood, and drew on the other side of his hand. Giving Cyrus one last grin and a wink, he knelt to the ground and placed his palm to the exact place Cyrus had killed the druggie.


    Then he was gone.

 11 § Cold Turkey

    For the next several days Cyrus wandered the streets of New York. He was in desperate need of a shower; his stomach ached and twisted until he couldn''t feel anything but numbness; no one spared him a second glance or anything to take away the edge of loneliness creeping in.


    He knew Acheron was right, he couldn''t make it on his own. He hadn''t been taught any life skills except manipulation and death. But he had to prove a point, prove he wasn''t just a demon''s plaything.


    So Cyrus dealt with the hunger. More pressing, however, was a different need making itself more and more noticeable.


    Somewhere in the middle of the week, Cyrus was digging through a dumpster somewhere when his hands began to shake too hard for him to continue. His vision wavered in and out. He slumped to the ground and let himself face the reality of the situation:


    He was pathetic.


    Yet another thing Acheron had been right about: he had an untapped keg of power at his disposal, but the only thing on his mind was a girl.


    Even now, the memory of her clung to the fringes of his awareness. Cyrus knew, he saw now, what he had to do.


    No more stalling. No more excuses. Tuesday served no purpose, and as long as she clouded his judgement, she had to die.


    The decision stilled the tremors wracking his body, for the moment. It cleared all the cobwebs out of his head and lifted the weight from his shoulders. He could win back Acheron''s approval and sate his need, and oh, she would probably last him a long time-- all Cyrus needed a knife.


    His blade was back at the compound, and he had no idea where he could get his hands on one without cash. As Cyrus made the journey to Queens, he came to the realization this would be a much more personal kill. He would have to use his bare hands, unless he could grab a knife from the kitchen. And then there was the matter of getting in and out, without having to deal with the pastor or his wife. Of course, if push came to shove, they would just be more bodies in his wake...


    He didn''t have a plan. Dammit, how could he waltz in there without a plan?


    Cyrus stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the Hale residence. By that point, all light had left the sky as well as from inside the home. Should he sneak in a window? Or would abandoning all care and taking on theatrics Moloch would certainly approve of work better--he could knock on the damn door like this was a normal housecall.


    Then another thought occurred to him: Acheron had drilled into him the need for discreteness. Slaughtering the pastor''s family was about as far from incognito as murder plots went.


    He simply stood there, wrestling with these concerns, until the atmosphere around him shifted. The already cold air grew harsher yet, nipping at Cyrus''s skin and raising the hairs along his arms. Breath catching, he craned his neck around to greet his visitor.


    The red eyes of his savior leered back at him.


    "Well," the man drawled, face lighting up with a smirk. "Come here often?"


    How long had the man been following him? And what the hell did he want? Cyrus made no attempt to mask his confusion.


    The other man waved a hand, giving a single-shoulder shrug. "It was sorta hard to ignore the tidal wave of desperation coming from this general vicinity, figured a little ol'' someone might end up attracting the wrong kind of attention again and need another heroic rescue." He raked his eyes over Cyrus, shaking his head slightly. "Mhmm. You sure are jonesing."


    Cyrus glanced back up at the townhouse, waiting for the inhabitants to hear the conversation and awake. He turned his best glare back on the other man, throwing all of his frustration into his next thoughts: GET LOST.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    The man grimaced. "Not a chance."


    Cyrus gritted his teeth, unsure what to do there. What was he, some ripoff guardian angel?


    "Christ boy, does it look like I''m wearing a halo?"


    "So what are you?" Cyrus bit out, sparing another glance at the Hale residence.


    "Ooh, so it does speak." The man clasped his hands together, shrugging again. "I could certainly tell you that--by first, why not a change of scenery?" He began to turn, but paused and cast Cyrus a weary look over his shoulder. "Man, demon--you''re gonna give me a headache. My name is Raziel."


    Cyrus wanted nothing more than to let Raziel disappear into the night, but knew things wouldn''t be so easy. If he just let him talk--then maybe he could return to his mission. He took a moment to steel himself, then followed Raziel down the street.


    To keep up with his long strides, Cyrus nearly had to jog. As they wandered, seemingly aimless, down the alleyways of Queens, Raziel did as promised. Cyrus remained silent throughout the explanation: he was a demon, alright, but something on the opposite spectrum as Acheron. Whereas the latter had been formed by the remaining negative energy of passing souls, Raziel was a concoction of the positive energies. Cyrus had never been told of such a thing, had never thought to imagine it himself.


    Raziel snorted. "Typical of Acheron to only tell his side of the story. There''s this whole cosmic balance thing, kid, a constant harmony...and where there exists darkness, there must be light to reveal it."


    Cyrus stopped dead in his tracks.


    Glancing back, Raziel paused as well, cocking his head. "Ah, right, that. Of course I know him. Any wayward soul lucky enough not to learned his name, oh, around two decades ago."


    This only made it harder for Cyrus to breathe. He put a hand to his chest, trying to simultaneously remember how to use his lungs and calm the storm of thoughts raining down in his head.


    Raziel winced, touching his own temple. "Ouch, kid. Try to calm down, alright?"


    Several dozen feet away, a street lamp flickered once, twice, then shattered. Glass rained down to the street.


    Appraising the now broken light, Raziel said, "Impressive. You know, for an amateur."


    When Cyrus spoke again, he didn''t recognize his own voice. It came out strong, and as commanding as a lion''s roar. "What did he do?"


    Raziel''s expression hardened and he crossed his arms, squaring his shoulders; he began to resemble Acheron, all tall and dark and hellish. "It doesn''t matter now. All that matters is what you do with it. So what will it be, little soldier? Messiah, or son of perdition?"


    When Cyrus did not respond, Raziel stepped closer, face hovering inches away. Cyrus watched the red gleam in his eyes grow brighter. "See, friend," he whispered, and Cyrus could feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek. "I like this world. I like it a lot. I doubt Acheron''s master plan includes whiskey, strip clubs, and..." Raziel leaned back, sighing with a little smile and wagging a finger. "I do have a soft spot for Mariah Carey."


    At Cyrus''s blank look, the demon scoffed, throwing his head back. "Really are kept under a rock, huh? Anyways. I think it''s only fair to show you the other side of the equation. Then all there will be left to do is wait and see where the chips fall." Raziel''s tone grew bitter by the end of his tirade.


    "It needs to burn," Cyrus responded quietly.


    "Why? Because Acheron said so?"


    Cyrus turned away, throwing up a mental wall around himself and staring blankly into the darkness. It didn''t matter what Acheron said, Cyrus agreed with it.


    Didn''t he? Hadn''t he spent his life with a clear purpose: repaint the world in a better color? One where mothers and fathers didn''t abandon their children; one without pointless suffering?


    One where he could be accepted?


    He deserved as much. He deserved a chance to feel in control, and everyone else would know their place, their own insignificance in the grand scheme of things.


    Behind him, Raziel finally spoke up. "Don''t get me wrong, life isn''t precious. There will always be more where that came from. But what you''re doing, what you want to do--it upsets the balance and only drives you further down a road you can''t come back from."


    Cryus did not bother looking back at him, beginning to walk away without a word. His hands were shaking again.


    "If there''s anything you take from this," he called after Cyrus in a reserved tone, "do not kill the girl."


    Cyrus felt like screaming. He had never done that, not aloud, but it felt fitting for the moment. All the anger rushed to his head and pulsed there in a splitting headache; he had too much nervous energy and nothing to do with it.


    Raziel added, this time softly, "It''s all about balance, like I said, kid. One doesn''t exist without the other. There''s gotta be things like me to keep things like Acheron in check; and there has to be light like her to tone down your darkness."


    Cyrus tasted the blood on his tongue before he felt the pain from his split lower lip. He breathed in, and out, counting the stars in the sky above until his pulse thrummed a little less erratically in his ears. "If there''s such a better way," he finally said, and his voice came out sounding like static. He was losing his grip, ready to drop all signs of civilization built within and become something truly feral. "Then will you show it to me?"


    "I''m afraid you''ll need to find your own way." Raziel hesitated, then said, "Perhaps I can do something else for you, though. Meet me in Central Park; tomorrow after dusk."

 12 § Dead in the Water

    Cyrus stumbled through the darkness as far as his legs would carry him before collapsing behind a dumpster.


    He''d spent that week in a variety of interesting places¡ªbus stations, down in the subway, anywhere else he could close his eyes no matter how briefly¡ªbut this topped them all. He didn''t have the energy to keep going; almost all at once the exhaustion came over him, slamming into him with the full force of an oncoming train. Cyrus had enough coherency left to hide himself, huddling in an alley somewhere near Brownsville before his consciousness left him.


    He awoke to something as blinding as the sun engulfing him; when he peeled his eyes open, though, Cyrus saw the sky was still painted charcoal overhead.


    Gravel was embedded in his cheek; his body ached from his pavement-nap, but it''s not as if he were used to luxury. Cyrus rose from his position on the ground and was met by a sharp voice, cutting through the silence.


    "Don''t move, man!"


    Cyrus squinted against the harsh glare of the flashlight still being shown in his eyes. Beyond the haze, he made out the scrawny form of a man standing over him. In one hand, he aimed the flashlight; in the other, the man was clenching a gun.


    Cyrus saw the young man''s lips move, but a ringing in his ears drowned out whatever sound came from them. The man was all nervous energy: his fingers twitched on the gun, and his fear saturated the air and filled Cyrus''s own body with adrenaline.


    Raziel''s question came back to him: Messiah, or son of perdition? The ringing in Cyrus''s ears faded as he came upon his answer.


    "Do you think I''m playing, bitch? I said, give me your motherfucking money!" The other man spat.


    Cyrus got to his feet, even as the barrel of the handgun followed him. He watched the finger tense over the trigger, all the while knowing how fast this would all be over¡ªone way or another.


    A vein throbbed in the man''s forehead; he screamed more obscenities at Cyrus, each one growing more and more shrill. Cyrus did not react, looking the man up and down. Tattered, soiled clothing; dirt-streaked face; skin mottled with scars. This was a very familiar brand of prey. He was nothing but another junkie, looking for his next fix.


    Well, that was one thing they had in common.


    Cyrus didn''t think it through, didn''t lay any expectations down. He just stared at the gun and focused on how he wanted it the hell out of the junkie''s trembling hand. With a yelp, the other man dropped the weapon which clattered to the ground; steam seemed to rise from his hand where angry red welts were already forming.


    "What the fuck¡ª"


    Those were the last words the man spoke. They cut off with a gurgle when Cyrus''s hands appeared on his throat, digging his nails in and fending off the wild kicks and thrusts of elbows the junkie sent his way. It seemed to drag on for several minutes, several minutes marked by the ache in Cyrus''s fingers and the fight dying in the other man with every passing moment. The eyes rolled back and the arms went slack before Cyrus felt it: energy washing over him.


    The body hit the ground. Cyrus didn''t bother giving it a second glance. The sun was peeking over the horizon with a wide, golden eye, the only witness to his crimes. He felt as strong as he had in, god, he couldn''t even remember how long.


    So why did it hurt?


    No one had ever questioned before; he never had questioned himself. All he knew was the power surging through his veins. But now, now two different people had thrown into Cyrus''s face the reality: he was going down a path of no return. What was waiting for him on the other side?


    Did he only care to spite Acheron?


    Cyrus didn''t know where these anxieties were coming from, but he shoved them away in a dusty back corner of his mind.


    He had the whole day to kill before his ominous appointment in Central Park. Cyrus tried to keep himself out of the nicer part of Brooklyn, but somehow he found himself on hallowed ground.


    The church was empty, and knowing a certain human wasn''t there made it easier to breathe under the watchful eye of Jesus. The figure appeared mournful this time to Cyrus. Or was that apprehension in his eyes?


    Each step he took forward reverberated back off the high vaulted walls. Then a second set of footsteps joined his, and Cyrus looked up to meet Pastor Hale''s dark eyes¡ªones that could give Acheron''s a run for his money.


    Despite this, the man smiled warmly. "Ah, hello again. She''s not here you know," he said, his tone straddling the line between polite and bitter.


    So he didn''t know what Cyrus had done. The wave of relief that washed over him only spurred embarrassment; of course Tuesday hadn''t ratted him out. Who would believe her?


    When Cyrus didn''t respond, Pastor Hale raised his eyebrows. "Or are you here for another reason?" He followed Cyrus''s eyes to the statue of Christ, pinned to the cross. "Something on your mind?"


    Cryus sank into a pew, steadying himself against the back of the next one.


    "Well," Pastor Hale continued. "He is always listening. If it''s easier, you may find it helpful to talk to him instead."


    This brought a smile to Cyrus''s lips, and he ducked his face. If God were truly listening, He would have smited Cyrus down the moment he was born.


    When Cyrus heard the man''s footsteps retreat away, he lifted his face again to watch him go. A familiar, yet completely alien, darkness hung around the man like a shroud.


    He didn''t realize people were so complicated, that they could have their own brands of evil. He could have pondered this, what exactly was wrong with Hale, all night...but Cyrus had an appointment to keep.


    He took the train to Manhattan and found his way to Central Park. He''d never been before, and Cyrus arrived to one entrance he realized it stretched on for miles in either direction.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    How was he supposed to find a demon here?


    He wasn''t. Cyrus was the one who would be found. Knowing this, he heaved a weary sigh and began walking down a path at random. It winded under the cover of trees, which blotted out nearly all light and left him alone in the blackness. Cyrus kept walking until the branches overhead parted and he happened across a bridge jutting over an expanse of water. The rising moon provided enough light for Cyrus to stare down at his wavering reflection before he heard voices, faint in the distance.


    He turned away from the bridge, following the sound into another huddling of trees. Stepping off the path, Cyrus trekked across the field until the glow of a lantern caught his eye. It lit up a small circle, revealing a tent and two figures standing around it.


    He stopped a dozen feet away, trying to make sense of the scene. The first figure was as thin as a stick, shoulders hunched and dressed in rags. She was staring up with wide eyes, and most strangely yet a wide smile, at the other figure.


    Cyrus could feel Raziel''s presence before he realized the second figure was him. He was saying something to the woman in a gentle tone.


    "Your prayers have been heard, child. You are not alone; may angels watch over this place as you rest and keep you safe."


    Cyrus pinched himself, but no, he was definitely awake.


    The woman mouthed a silent thanks and retreated into the tent. As the flap closed, he made out the words COME TOMORROW written in Sharpie near the zipper.


    Raziel turned his head then, winking at Cyrus. When the demon saw what he was looking at, he said with a conspiratorial smile, "Keeps the monsters away. At least that''s what the urban legend says. Little does she know..."


    Raziel appeared at Cyrus''s side, placing a hand on his back and urging him out of the field.


    "Speaking of legends, we''re going to visit one."


    Cyrus shook his head, still focused on a different matter. He appraises Raziel with arched brows, who simply shrugged in response.


    "Some demons feed on fear and misery. The more civilized of us," Raziel said with a low chuckle, "are fueled by happiness. Doesn''t matter where it comes from."


    Cyrus understood the true meaning there: it didn''t matter if it was deception. Made no difference to him; he didn''t respond, letting Raziel lead him out of the park and to the subway. They rode in silence, but something pricked at Cyrus; something was familiar about this.


    The memory was gone as soon as it had made itself known. Cyrus shook off the frustration, raising his head and seeing Raziel had been watching him. He quickly looked away when he met Cyrus''s eyes, beginning to whistle a song Cyrus didn''t recognize. The ride was over in minutes, and the pair left the subway and walked until the asphalt turned into sand.


    Cyrus stopped, looking between the expanse of Manhattan Beach and Raziel.


    "Remember when I said you aren''t the only thing that goes bump in the night?" the demon inquired, and jabbed a thumb at the beach. "Well, here''s something I''d bet Acheron didn''t tell you: humans have a little power, too."


    Cyrus''s breath caught in his throat, but Raziel didn''t seem to notice.


    "If enough of them come together, at least," Raziel amended. "When a large amount of people all focus on the same thing, it can be willed into a sort of existence. Ever heard of a tulpa?"


    Able to suck in a breath finally, Cyrus shook his head.


    "The collective belief of enough people in legends is enough to make them come to life. Kid, you''re a couple hundred feet from one of them. Can you feel it?"


    Cyrus stared out at the water, just visible from his vantage point. Something was hanging on the air, something as tense and anticipatory as he was¡ªand almost against his will, his feet jerked forward and Cyrus was walking towards the water.


    Close behind, Raziel was saying, "This one''s called a siren. Nothing like the namesake, though, it''s a merging of a couple dozen myths." His hand appeared on Cyrus''s shoulder, stopping him as they neared the surf. "Legend has it, it''ll tell you the thing you most need to hear." He paused, cocking his head. "Or maybe it''s what you want to hear. Same difference. All you have to do is go in."


    Raziel pointed a long pale finger at the sea.


    Silently, Cyrus asked if Raziel had done it.


    "Oh, hell no," he said, throwing his head back with a laugh. "It scares the shit out of me. But I think you''ll find this...enlightening."


    The moon''s reflection danced on the oil-black waves, which battered at the shore with an unparalleled ferocity to any other time Cyrus had happened by the beach. He''d never been on it, though, never felt the cold sting of seawater washing over his skin or tasted the salt heavy on the air.


    "I can''t swim," Cyrus whispered.


    "It won''t let you drown," Raziel said. "I think."


    Cyrus wanted to get the hell out of there, but curiosity held him in place¡ªor was it something else? He stared into the water, sure at any moment some terrible creature would surface.


    Before he could chicken out, Raziel''s hand urged him forward. Cyrus stumbled a few steps, shoes now soaked in the icy water that crept up to his ankles.


    "Oh, yeah, you might wanna take those off first, champ."


    Had he been inclined to voice the obscenities going through his head, Cyrus wouldn''t be physically able; the water''s chill was already seeping through his body, causing his teeth to chatter violently. He stripped off his shoes, trying not to think too hard about what was coming. Cyrus didn''t quite believe this was anything more than a practical joke, but the idea of getting some kind of answers¡ªany answers¡ª spurred him on. He stripped down to his underwear, ignoring Raziel''s ensuing laugh.


    Cyrus crept forward, watching aa the water slowly rose past his calves, knees, then waist. When it was chest level, and he begun to feel like the water was seeping into every pore and could barely breathe, he threw a suspicious glare back at Raziel.


    His eyes never made it to shore.


    Something grabbed his ankles and yanked on them. Cyrus couldn''t make out anything in the water, and when he swatted frantically around himself, he made no contact with anything solid. Nonetheless, one more swift pull sent him under.


    Blackness, blackness everywhere. It stung his eyes and Cyrus had to squeeze them shut, though it made no difference on what he saw. Saltwater trickled down his throat and he gagged, forcing himself to keep his mouth shut and not drink a gallon of the stuff.


    The hold on him released, but as he flailed his body, he couldn''t find the surface again. Cyrus''s lungs began to ache.


    Then somehow, though he was totally submerged, a chorus of voices met his ears: light, playful, and sinisterly inhuman. He had never heard anything like them; they resembled the ringing of a thousand bells more than they did any real person''s voice.


    Relax.


    That''s what the voices said, overlapping each other so from every direction Cyrus heard a dozen repetitions of the word. Against all logic, his body obeyed. The adrenaline rush died instantly, his limbs went limp, and he felt himself sinking further down. Idly, he thought he may never resurface, and the voices only continued to reassure him.


    Cyrus.


    One single voice rose above the others, and it was terribly familiar: hoarse, like the owner of it had just smoked ten consecutive packs of cigarettes or finished a long crying jag, or likely both. He hadn''t heard that voice in years, but somehow Cyrus knew it was his mother speaking¡ªor, at least, an imitation of her.


    My sweet boy.


    It almost made him laugh, even as he drifted further into nothingness. This thing, the siren¡ªit surely didn''t know his mother all that well. She would never call him that. Hell, she has despised him so much she''d taken her own life just to escape him.


    This was what he needed to hear?


    No, it must have been wanted. But Cyrus couldn''t admit to himself that this in any way relieved him. He just couldn''t.


    Something grabbed his arm then, and Cyrus went feral, clawing at whatever had him; he was rewarded by a string of curses as his head broke the surface. When the cool air kissed his face, Cyrus gasped it in, chest burning. He sputtered on the water, too busy trying to refill his lungs to fend Raziel off as the demon dragged him back to shore.


    Still gasping, Cyrus opened his eyes to see his second-time savior drenched head to toe, and he did not look pleased about it. In fact, he looked like a drowned cat. "Christ, boy," Raziel said sourly. "You were under for five minutes."


    Cyrus ignored him, sinking to the sand and letting his body fall back. He ached everywhere. Still regarding him with a cautious stare, Raziel asked, "Well, must have been some conversation. What do you think?"


    Cyrus didn''t let Raziel see what he really thought. He was getting weak, and soft; the suspicions in his head held no weight or value. He''d disobeyed Acheron long enough, and all it had gotten him were two near death experiences.


    "I think it''s time to go home."

 13 § Fever Dream

    Cyrus still had learned nothing new, even after almost drowning to get answers. It was obvious everyone was in on some secret but him¡ªso the only thing left to do was wait. He resigned himself to the fact he must refine his powers and strengthen himself first.


    And then he''d make them tell.


    Before Cyrus parted with Raziel, the demon warned him Acheron would know where he''d been. "Don''t bother hiding this from him, he''ll sense me on you...Lord, did he mark his territory with you himself."


    It was somewhere past midnight when Cyrus arrived at his own doorstep, where he hesitated for several moments. Should he announce himself? Or walk right in?


    When he finally twisted the handle and stepped inside, Cyrus found there was no need for attempting to be quiet. Acheron was sitting at the dining table, head bowed.


    Cyrus crept forward cautiously, waiting for the lecture that was sure to come.


    When Acheron finally spoke, his voice was calm¡ªand he dragged over each word like he was too tired to speak them. "And the prodigal son returns."


    He raised his head, raking his eyes over Cyrus from his still-dripping hair to the soggy tennis shoes. Acheron exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed back from the table.


    "Let''s stick to a need-to-know basis, hmm?" he muttered, stepping around Cyrus and leaving the room. Moments later a door shut quietly.


    Cyrus was too exhausted to analyze that. He fell into bed¡ªstraight into a nightmare.


    He was not himself; he was seeing the world through someone else''s eyes. It didn''t take long to figure out who. The room was dark, but enough light came in through the window that Cyrus could see the colossal bookcase standing at the opposite wall; he knew if he looked up, he would see the paintings Tuesday had hung above her bed. But Cyrus couldn''t move in this body.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    He was just along for the ride.


    The bedroom door flung open, crashing into the wall; books along the shelves shook. Tuesday bolted upright, but then someone was on top of her and pressing her back into the mattress.


    Pastor Hale''s black eyes filled their vision¡ªCyrus, a helpless passenger, and Tuesday, who tried to scream. A sweaty hand clapped over her mouth; Cyrus could smell the booze wafting off the man, could even taste it.


    When Hale spoke, his words slurred together. "D''you think I don''t know what you''re doing?"


    She tried to kick, but her legs were pinned down. She screamed again, the sound muffled by Hale''s skin.


    "What you and that boy are doing," Hale repeated, spitting out the words. Cyrus could feel the hotness of his breath. "You''re always gonna be my little girl. Mine."


    The bottle of beer Hale had been holding in one hand clattered on the nightstand. With both hands now free, Hale curled the fingers of one around his daughter''s throat. The other trailed down her torso, stopping at the hem of her nightgown.


    At first, the wildness died in her, and she went limp beneath Hale. Then the sound of his belt landing on the floor shocked her back to reality; Hale''s eyes were busy elsewhere and didn''t notice as Tuesday reached for the beer bottle beside her.


    She cracked it against his head; with a shocked yelp, Hale crumpled to the side, but wasn''t down long enough for Tuesday to get up. Snarling like a wounded animal, soaked in beer and a single thin stream of blood trickling down his face, Hale reached his hands out to choke her again¡ª


    And then stopped.


    Tuesday''s hand shook around the makeshift blade she''d put to use from a shard of beer bottle. She was still gripping the end of it, watching as it sliced deep into her palm¡ªthe other end jutting out from Hale''s neck. With eyes wide and bloodshot, he fell for the final time. Blood squirted from the fatal wound when she pulled the shard back out.


    She looked down at herself, at the blood drenching her once white nightgown. For a moment she did not move.


    Then, she raised a shaking, wet hand to her mouth¡ªand Cyrus could taste the beer.


    Cyrus bolted up in his own bed, panting, the taste of cheap liquor still on his tongue¡ªand then the sound of the doorbell ringing reverberated through the house.

 14 § On the Wagon

    Cyrus cursed aloud. Here he had just gotten back, and seemed to be walking the line with whether he was in Acheron''s good graces¡ªand now this. He was tempted to stay in bed, leave his unexpected¡ªand unwelcome¡ªguest to give up and leave. Then he imagined what would happen if she didn''t leave, and his mentor found her...


    Cyrus jumped out of bed.


    When he passed Acheron''s room, no light emanated from underneath the door. That meant nothing. For all Cyrus knew, the demon was waiting in the darkness, ready to do Lord knows what. He attempted to open the front door without letting the hinges squeak, for as much as that was worth.


    Straight from the dreams that plagued Cyrus since childhood, a bloody Tuesday stood on his doorstep. She was silhouetted in the halo of pale light ebbing from the porch lamp; behind her, in stark contrast, darkness.


    When she spoke, he expected her voice to quiver. Tuesday bit her lip and seemed to struggle with what to say, but her voice was strong and clear. "I¡ªI didn''t know where else to go."


    Was she in shock? He couldn''t procure any other explanation for her eerie calmness. Normal people weren''t unfazed by murder.


    They just couldn''t be.


    Of course, Cyrus mused, that meant the only place she could fathom belonging was with another killer. Neither of them addressed that particular elephant in the room.


    Did that mean the score had been erased between them? Why else would she have felt comfortable enough to come to him?


    He raked his eyes over the streaks of blood across her nightgown, dried to a rusty color staining the otherwise pristine white cotton. She had thrown a jacket on over it, but it didn''t cover everything. With her bare skin exposed to the moonlight, she looked like a ghost. To add to her eerie appearance, Tuesday wasn''t projecting her signature brightness¡ªit was like a sheet had been thrown over it. It hadn''t been extinguished, but the light that struggled to the surface was weaker.


    And, to a small degree, Cyrus took credit for that. He knew the second he laid eyes on Pastor Hale the man was bad news, but it was no coincidence this happened then¡ªafter meeting Cyrus, and with how he''d showed up to church that morning. Cyrus had witnessed the whole ordeal, and if the other points were mere coincidence, the fact that Hale had mentioned him was not.


    Still, her childlike innocence couldn''t have lasted forever, and not everyone would have survived what she did. She''d done what she had to: kill. Maybe they weren''t terribly different, after all; Cyrus had no interest in needless suffering. Each kill had a purpose.


    "Did you call the police?" Cyrus whispered. There was a double meaning to his words, and he was sure she knew it.


    "Why¡ª" She glanced down at herself, at the visible bloodstains, and somehow paled even further. Tuesday shook her head slowly, and visibly swallowed. "Not yet," she replied quietly.


    Wordlessly, Cyrus slipped outside and shut the door behind him with care. He sat down on the stoop, staring up at the starless sky, but felt Tuesday''s eyes on him. She hesitated, then joined him.


    His skin tingled from her proximity. Cyrus twisted his hands together, unsure what to do.


    The memories ran through his head again, one in particular sticking out: how Tuesday had stabbed her father with a shard of glass. Cyrus didn''t know why, but it wouldn''t let go of his attention. It festered in the back of his mind, the idea he had seen something like that before. But where in the hell had that come from?


    He was losing his fucking mind.


    "Cyrus, I did something really bad," Tuesday whispered, shaking him out of this thoughts. He stiffened, but there was nothing he could really say. He doubted his acting skills, and how the hell could he explain knowing what had happened?


    "But the worst part¡ª" Tuesday continued, and the sound of her tears thickened her voice. She tripped over the words and stumbled to a halt, taking in a deep breath and pausing. "The worst part is I don''t feel bad about it. Have you ever...felt like that?"


    Cyrus flinched, daring a glance at her. She was watching him with wide eyes, caught-in-the-headlights eyes.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    I-know-you''re-a-killer eyes.


    But, strangely, Cyrus saw something in them that made him suspect the answer wouldn''t matter. It wouldn''t change anything, because Tuesday herself had changed.


    He shook his head slowly.


    She chewed on her lip, looking down at her bloodied nightgown. "I''m starting to think the world isn''t as black and white as I thought." Tuesday met his eyes again, jaw setting. "And that means you''re not all darkness."


    The back-and-forth was enough to give Cyrus a headache; he wanted to be sure she meant this before deciding what to do with it. He rose from the porch, and she followed. As soon as she was standing, Cyrus cornered her, placing his hands on the wall to either side of Tuesday''s head. She was trapped, pinned under his piercing gaze, faces a mere inch apart.


    "And if you''re wrong?" he asked darkly.


    Tuesday didn''t shake or wilt under his stare. She lifted her chin, staring right back at him. A storm was brewing in those grey eyes, a storm that could drown the whole world. Her nearness washed over him, begging him to break what little distance was left between them; Cyrus''s eyes strayed to her throat, what he''d imagined slashing on countless occasions. He could do it now, so easily. Acheron would probably approve.


    This thought pushed Cyrus back a few inches. He was beginning to wonder if the demon was worth pleasing. Forget all the plans that had been made for Cyrus¡ªWhat did he want?


    Tuesday responded matter-of-factly, "I''m not."


    With a weary sigh, Cyrus pushed off the wall and turned his back on her. She wasn''t done with him yet, though.


    "Why did you do it? James¡ªwhy did you¡ª"


    "You wouldn''t believe me," he muttered under his breath, grimacing at the ground. A heaviness crept over him, and Cyrus could identify it: loneliness, as constricting as a shroud. It didn''t matter if Tuesday was a league closer to being whatever the hell he was; she would never understand his need.


    Cyrus began to dwell on the question. Why had he done it? Sure, it was the kind of thing he''d lusted over for years. But he''d had enough self control to hold himself back, as Acheron had shown him. Acheron had been the one to end his fast, as well. He said the words and Cyrus obeyed. He slit a man''s throat because Acheron told him to.


    Now he was a slave to his urges.


    "Why the fuck did you do it, Cyrus?"


    He turned then, meeting the fury in Tuesday''s eyes. His own anger fizzled out immediately, the fire put out by storm still raging in those eyes. Cyrus glanced down to the cross still hanging from her neck and said, "If your Lord told you you had a mission, would you deny Him?"


    She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Tuesday tried several times to speak, but couldn''t regain the ability until she''d ripped the chain from her neck. It snapped apart and the cross clattered to the ground. "Who said God has any part in this?"


    Cyrus wished very strongly then that he could tell what she was thinking. Maybe the ability would come to him some day, but as far as he could tell, it was a demon thing. Specifically, a demon-Cyrus thing; he didn''t know of anyone else''s thoughts Acheron could read.


    "Well, I''ll tell you why I did it," Tuesday said, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "I did it because I wanted to."


    She sank to the ground once again, huddling in on herself and showing the first true vulnerability since showing up.


    The words came out in a rush. "I didn''t have to kill him. I could have gotten away without killing him, my father didn''t have to die¡ª" Choking on the tears now flowing freely down her face, Tuesday looked up at him with glassy eyes. "It wasn''t my choice to make. I shouldn''t play God...but all I could think was, I couldn''t let someone like him live. I couldn''t let him hurt anyone else."


    The words sunk somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, souring there. Cyrus couldn''t look at her any longer. He glanced down at her hands, noticing the two-inch long gash in her right palm. The wound, surely from gripping the glass, had mostly dried and the blood crusted around the edges. In her nervousness, though, she''d rubbed it open again, and a fresh stream of red was trickling from the gash and down her wrist.


    Cyrus knelt beside her and took her hand gently in his own. He didn''t understand what was urging him then, but the action had felt right. The memory rewound itself¡ªTuesday, wielding the shard of glass like a knife¡ªand it wouldn''t let him go. The familiarity of it nearly stole his breath; his whole body felt like it had been doused in gasoline and set on fire. Cyrus screwed his eyes shut, and opened them again when he heard Tuesday gasp.


    She was staring at their hands. He followed her gaze, not understanding her shock¡ªnot at first. Cyrus''s eyes traced over the wound again, and saw the fresh blood had already stopped flowing. The remnants of it were still wet against Tuesday''s skin, but when he wiped it away, no new blood bubbled up to replace it.


    As Cyrus stared at the gash, he could swear it was growing smaller with each passing second. The dramatic redness surrounding it decreased in depth, the skin around the wound retaining its previous healthy color.


    "How¡ªhow did you¡ª" Tuesday stuttered. By then, the gash had come to resemble just a thin scar.


    Cyrus bounced back to his feet, feeling the urge to bolt.


    He didn''t want to run anymore.


    "There''s something I should tell you¡ª" Cyrus began, voice as strong and confident as he''d ever heard it. It was time, he felt; he could feel it in every molecule of his being. It was time to unburden his secret, and if after all of that she thought he was a freak¡ªwell, at least he''d finally know.


    Cyrus never finished his sentence. A heaviness was spreading through his body, making each limb feel more like a sack of bricks. He had enough alertness left to see the fear enter Tuesday''s expression.


    Then his legs gave out beneath him. Darkness overtook him before his head struck the pavement.

 15 § False Prophet

    Cyrus regained his sense of hearing first. Voices wavered back to him as if he were underwater, but he could make them out nonetheless.


    The first was low and tremulous. "What have you done to him?"


    The second responded with a cold laughter. "I might ask you the same question." The voice paused, and returned with an underlying sharpness. "Tell me, what possessed you to come here? And what makes you think you''re welcome?"


    Tuesday didn''t respond. Cyrus struggled, in a daze, to remember how to move. He became aware then of the feeling of something hard pressing into his back; his feet dangled off the surface, suspended in the air.


    When Acheron spoke again, his voice was almost too quiet to hear. "Do you think it''s a coincidence you feel connected?"


    The thought of the demon and the girl in the same room shocked his system enough that Cyrus regained the ability to move. His eyes snapped open, and as the scene came into focus he saw he was lying on the dining room table.


    Acheron was suddenly by his side, taking Cyrus''s chin in his cold fingers and turning it to face him. "There you are. How do you feel?"


    Cyrus focused on the heaviness in his limbs and how much effort it took to even lift his head. Sleepiness tugged at him, yearning to pull him back under.


    "To be expected."


    Cyrus remembered Tuesday''s presence and glanced over to her, where she stood stiffly against the kitchen wall. Her eyes were wide, darting between him and the demon; he couldn''t imagine what she must be thinking.


    He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. Cyrus silently pressed at Acheron, waiting for him to elaborate. Then Cyrus saw Tuesday''s undamaged hand and the memory sucker-punched him: he had healed her.


    "Energy has to come from somewhere," Acheron explained to him. "Impressive trick you just pulled off, but it has its consequences."


    Then he turned to Tuesday.


    "Now would be the time for running and screaming," Acheron mused, but his voice was deadpan.


    Cyrus attempted to lift his head again, and saw Tuesday''s hands shaking. She clutched them behind her back, meeting Acheron''s eyes. The fear was evident in her own, but she didn''t look away.


    Cyrus envied that.


    He managed to sit up, though every muscle ached and he rather would have collapsed again. He tried, in vain, to speak.


    What was there to even say?


    Sure, he''d been planning on telling her moments before about what he was¡ªbut Cyrus hadn''t planned on this, hadn''t planned on Acheron being a part of that conversation. He stayed silent.


    "You''re not...human..." Tuesday spoke up in a meek voice. It felt like it should have been directed at Cyrus, but she was still staring at Acheron.


    He laughed again, the sound raising the hair on Cyrus''s arms. For him to be so disturbed by it, it was a wonder Tuesday was holding her ground so well; Cyrus couldn''t stop marvelling at that.


    Acheron walked towards her until he was inches away, bending down to mutter near her ear, "Careful, now. Wouldn''t want anything happening to you like your friend Crocker."


    He leaned away, and Cyrus had enough time to see Tuesday''s face pale when the doorbell rang.


    "Well," Acheron said smoothly, "that would be for you."


    Tuesday stayed frozen in place.


    "The police," he prompted, "may want a word with you." Acheron''s eyes trailed down to her bloody garments.


    "Fuck¡ª" Tuesday''s eyes darted back to Cyrus. She stared at him for several moments, mouth open, before exhaling sharply and leaving the kitchen. The front door open and shut.


    "Why did you do that?" Cyrus asked, finally finding his voice.


    All Acheron responded with was, "We have work to do. Get some rest, you''ll need it," before sweeping out of the room.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    As much as Cyrus hated to give in, it was all too easy to obey. He slumped back against the table and closed his eyes, not bothering to try and crawl his way to his bedroom.


    It was an uneasy, though dreamless, slumber.


    When Cyrus awoke, the ache had left his limbs. He was able to swing his legs over the table and stand without falling. Taking this as a good sign, he poured himself a bowl of slightly stale cereal and turned over everything that had happened in his mind. It was a lot to process, to say the least, and a pulsing pain blossomed in his temples.


    He heard a door open near the back of the house and heavy footsteps fall against the linoleum. Then Moloch was standing in the doorway. "Well, if it isn''t the faith healer himself. Sure took you long enough to wake up." In response to Cyrus''s raised eyebrows, he added, "You''ve been out for two days."


    Cyrus let the spoon fall and clatter back into the bowl, staring open-mouthed at the reaper.


    "Get dressed," Moloch continued. "Then come to the compound." He stalked back out the door without another word.


    Cyrus did as he was told, throwing on a fresh pair of jeans and a button up shirt before heading into the cold. He didn''t have a jacket, and the temperature had fallen enough to sting him even through the long sleeves of his shirt. When he reached the basement of the compound, the entire group had already assembled in a seated circle around Acheron. Moloch and Bune stood to the side, arms crossed, watching Cyrus enter with a strange excitement lighting up their black eyes.


    Though no longer cold, Cyrus couldn''t help but shiver.


    He made a move to sit amongst the other members of Second Advent, but Acheron stopped him, raising his hand. Then, appraising the seated members with a warm smile, he said, "Many of you have had some restraints about Cyrus, that he doesn''t belong. You would be right. He is not one of us."


    Cyrus shrank back, but a hand appeared on his shoulder. He glanced to the side to see Moloch grinning down at him.


    "He''s something very different. Something you all have been waiting for. However, this is something better witnessed than described. Who here is willing to put some faith in him and see the miracles he is capable of?"


    For several seconds, the only thing Cyrus heard was the hammering of his pulse. Then a timid hand rose, and Delilah White said quietly, "I will."


    Acheron beckoned her to join him in the center of the room. As she rose and walked towards him, Cyrus attempted to shake Moloch''s hand from his shoulder. The fingers only dug in deeper and he bent to whisper in Cyrus''s ear, "Play nice, boy. Your reputation depends on it."


    He stilled, though his muscles were still tensed to spring. With growing anxiety, Cyrus watched as the demon took Delilah by the shoulders, spinning her around to face the crowd. She met his eyes, giving him a tiny smile; the sight of it made Cyrus''s chest tighten and his lungs began to burn as he held his breath.


    Still holding one of the woman''s shoulders, Acheron''s free hand slipped into his suit and withdrew a familiar blade: Cyrus''s. Before he could react, Acheron plunged the knife hilt-deep into the woman''s gut.


    With a startled gasp, Delilah looked down at the handle now protruding from her belly. Her hands covered Acheron''s which stayed gripping the knife for several moments before he retracted his hand, and Delilah''s knees buckled. She fell to the ground, blood now running through her fingers and dripping to the ground.


    Moloch gave Cyrus a hard shove, sending him stumbling to the center of the room. For what felt like centuries, all he could do was stare down at the dying woman at his feet. He felt the stares of dozens of terrified people, plus one pissed off demon, on him; Cyrus couldn''t calm the tangle of thoughts rushing through his head. He couldn''t breathe, couldn''t make himself focus on the task at hand.


    He hadn''t thought about healing Tuesday; it had seemed to come naturally. Now, now that Cyrus was being forced to do it like it was nothing more than a performance, he couldn''t recall the stage directions. This was something he had not practiced or prepared for.


    Delilah took in a shaky, wheezing breath. She coughed, and her lips became painted bright red; a thin trail of blood dripped down her chin to join the puddle growing on the ground.


    Cyrus dropped to the ground beside her, sparing a glance up at Acheron who stood there as calmly as if he were simply waiting for the day''s forecast. Cyrus placed his palms over the wound, blood gushing between his own fingers; when nothing happened, he squeezed his eyes shut until bright spots danced across his vision. He couldn''t clear his head, though; he was much too keyed up.


    The body underneath his wet fingers vanished, slumping fully to the ground. Cyrus''s breaths came in gasps then; Delilah''s were too shallow to hear. He tried to recall the feeling that had flowed through him when he healed Tuesday, will the tingling sensation to run over his skin again¡ªbut nothing happened.


    With one final sigh, the body on the floor went totally still. Delilah''s eyes were still open, staring at Cyrus but glassy and emotionless. He could feel when her soul left the body, but it brought him no pleasure; it wasn''t his to take. He fell away from her, scrambling back before Bune and Moloch appeared, fisting hands in his shirt and lifting him off the ground. As they dragged Cyrus out, Acheron was reassuring the cacophony of shrill voices that had begun to rise over each other.


    The reapers left Cyrus alone outside the cabin. He knelt down in the grass, tracing the blood on his hands.


    When Acheron came for him, tears were glistening in Cyrus''s eyes, threatening to spill over.


    "That Hale girl''s conscience is rubbing off on you," the demon noted in an emotionless voice, producing a black handkerchief from his suit and dabbing at the blood on his own hands. "Humanity," he scoffed, "is infectious. Dangerous."


    Cyrus ignored the rant, glaring down at the ground. "I wasn''t ready."


    Devoid of pity, Acheron said back, "It is my job to push your limits, not coddle you."


    When Cyrus didn''t respond, Acheron audibly exhaled and muttered, "When you''re ready to move past the parlor tricks, come find me."


    Cyrus stayed in his crouch until the sun, which had been hanging in the pinnacle of the sky when he had first arrived, sunk into hiding. He simply sat there¡ªcrying silent tears, all the while thinking maybe his lack of normalcy was a blessing.


    He didn''t think he could handle these human emotions if they came on to him any stronger.

 16 § A Plague on Both Houses

    Sometime during his self-pity session, Cyrus began to dwell on how easily Acheron had let a member of his congregation die. Sure, he couldn''t have known that Cyrus wouldn''t pull through--but why take the risk?


    Then Cyrus remembered another recruit Acheron had seemed eager to forget: Janice.


    With all that been happening, Cyrus had given the woman no thought since her disappearance. Now she front-and-center in his mind: the one that got away.


    The only one that had gotten away.


    Cyrus recalled how roughly he''d been roused from his sleep to be accused of her murder; Acheron''s suspicion of him had been so intense, but since when was the demon''s intuition wrong?


    Cyrus didn''t know what or why, but he was sure in that moment Acheron had done something to the missing recruit.


    What wasn''t Acheron telling him?


    Cyrus was forced to tamp down these thoughts. His failure in saving Delilah had proven he was not ready to take the demon on. He erected a mental wall around his suspicions and dutifully adhered to Acheron''s lessons for the following week, not daring to push his luck and leave the house just yet. Cyrus especially could not imagine stepping foot into the compound. Acheron''s attempt at painting him as some messiah was obviously premature, and now everyone must have feared and reviled Cyrus.


    Among the most interesting training sessions that week had come up when Acheron caught him dwelling on Delilah. The demon had entered the room as quiet as a whisper and Cyrus didn''t have enough time to shield the images of her bloody body that were going through his head.


    Unsure of what else to do to fill the ensuing silence, the heaviness in the air indicative of the demon''s disapproval, Cyrus said, "It won''t happen again. I won''t fail you again."


    "Pray that you''re right," Acheron responded coldly. "Speaking of prayers¡ªare you ready for your next lesson?"


    There wasn''t really a question there, with only one answer Cyrus could give. He nodded, and Acheron led him to the den.


    Cyrus did his best to ignore the tingling along his spine that came alive each time he looked at Acheron. As the demon spoke, the two sitting in their usual position a few feet away from each other, Cyrus found it easier to forget his troubles and focus on the lesson. He knew, however, he''d never be able to let his guard down again; he would always have to devote a sliver of his awareness to keeping his feelings under lock and key.


    "When you go looking for something," Acheron was saying, "it tends to find you. I have no doubt you''ll find yourself capable of demonstrating this. Anyone somewhat removed from humanity is¡ªdemons, reapers, you."


    Acheron went on to explain that names have power, and if anyone thought his own name hard enough he''d hear it.


    "Mostly you don''t need to listen for your name," Acheron continued. "A desire, a wish¡ªany prayer will do. As soon as a person opens themselves up to a higher power, any of us may hear their call. You simply must learn to pick up on the frequency."


    Acheron instructed him to clear his mind and meditate for several minutes. With Cyrus''s eyes still closed, Acheron told him to open his mind and let the prayers come to him. As with many of the other things Cyrus had done, attempting to force something to happen didn''t have a high success rate.


    He sat in silence for several minutes, nearly getting restless, when he finally heard something other than his own thoughts: a little hum came to life in the back of his mind. Cyrus turned his attention to it and it slowly rose in volume, the static smoothing out and forming real words. A voice he didn''t recognize--nasally and adolescent--was saying, "Is there anyone with us? Tell us your name."


    As the voice became clearer, images came to Cyrus as well: as vivid as if they were in the room with him, he saw three teens seated around a wooden board with the entire alphabet printed across it in rows.


    "Infuriating children, always jamming up the signal," Acheron muttered. "Skip past this, tune into someone else."


    The scene was gone as soon as it had arrived. For awhile there was silence, until another voice made itself known. Cyrus latched onto it until he could make it out: timid, even younger than the first, and whispering.


    "Please, Lord," a child said, and Cyrus could see his bowed head and clasped hands. "Let mommy come home safely--"


    This voice vanished, too, and he couldn''t find it again. Cyrus''s eyes snapped open and he exhaled in frustration.


    "As you practice, this should come more naturally." Acheron assured him. He wrapped up the day''s training session with the order that Cyrus try it again on his own time. Acheron''s parting words: "It comes useful when you need to find someone." Ignoring the implications of this, Cyrus also figured the exercise would serve to recruit more members eventually. What better way to paint himself as a messiah than answering prayers? The memory of Raziel doing the same thing came to mind, and Cyrus was glad to finally know how he''d done it.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    In the gap between lessons one day, when enough time had passed to ease the tension, Cyrus slipped out of the house and made for the subway.


    On the train, Cyrus could feel eyes on him, but when he glanced up there was no one looking his way. The bench he occupied was otherwise empty, as were the ones nearby. To either end a few people were scattered, immersed in their phones except one. He kept watching the latter figure, who had a newspaper opened in front of their face; it took a moment for Cyrus to place him, then he recognized the man''s suede boots.


    Gritting his teeth, Cyrus left his own seat and took the place beside Moloch. With a toothy grin, the reaper tossed the newspaper aside. "Guess I''ll have to work on the incognito shit. Your old man thought you''d benefit from a security detail," he said sarcastically. "Just forget I''m even here."


    What was this--a warning? Cyrus didn''t respond, staring out the window for the rest of the ride to Brooklyn. He didn''t appreciate having a babysitter, but being shadowed was better than being quarantined in the house.


    As soon as Cyrus got above-ground, he lost Moloch in the crowd, though he had no doubt the reaper was close behind. Trying to shake off the anxiety that was trailing cold fingers down his spine, Cyrus hunched his shoulders against the cold and trudged towards the private school. When the students came bursting out at the final bell, Tuesday was not among the gathering.


    A brief moment of unease squeezed around his heart before Cyrus realized he should have expected this. Who went to school when their father, as unsavory of a character as he may have been, just died?


    He turned around and made for the church. He didn''t make it inside before stopping short, almost crashing into a group of people staring up at the eastern wall of the building. Cyrus had to shoulder his way through, dodging the hands that were up in the air, aiming cameras. Then he saw it.


    Marring the once white surface, in giant, jagged splotches and splatters of red, were the words FAITH IS A LIE THEY FEED US AT GUNPOINT. OBLIVION IS A PROMISE. The graffiti nearly engulfed the entire wall, each letter as tall as Cyrus himself was.


    His breath caught in his throat, part dismay and part awe. The first thought that popped into Cyrus''s head was how convenient it all was, how easily the situation could be exploited; a most devout man had fallen and taken with him a tattered reputation. It could only spell out a plethora of wayward followers, in search of a new truth.


    His second thought brought with it a wave of shame that warmed his face and made him shudder.


    From the back of the building, Tuesday appeared around the corner, a gallon of paint in either hand. With a hoarse, raw voice, she started to shout, "Show''s over, people--" Then she saw Cyrus and stumbled to a stop.


    He couldn''t read the look in her eyes. Her expression was blank, unresponsive.


    It must have set in, then, the reality of what Cyrus was: a freak. It brought a bitter taste to his mouth, and he turned to face the gathering crowd and shot them with his most withering glare. Many of the gawkers visibly shuddered before clearing their throats, muttering under their breaths and scattering away, leaving the sidewalk near the church empty.


    When he turned back to Tuesday, nothing had changed about her demeanor. She didn''t shake or regard him with condemnation.


    Silently, Cyrus stepped forward and took one of the cans. A rickety ladder was already propped against the wall, along with various brushes laying atop a spread-out garbage bag on the ground. Selecting one, he stirred it in the eggshell-tinted paint and went to work.


    After several moments'' hesitation, Tuesday joined him. They didn''t speak for the first hour, though occasionally Cyrus caught her staring at him with a slight smile. When his arms began to ache to the point he couldn''t hold the paintbrush still, he sunk to the pavement. The sun was at a 45 degree angle in the sky, and they''d only covered up about half of the spray paint.


    With a drawn out sigh, Tuesday joined him on the ground. Flecks of white paint clung to the ends of her hair and stood out against the black jeans she was wearing. Cyrus couldn''t remember a time she''d ever worn something so dark, and he looked at her more carefully to see her typically french manicured nails were now painted ebony.


    She was rubbing one finger along the edge of her tennis shoes. Up close, Cyrus could now see what was written on them; a line of poetry adorned each, the left reading "what matters most is how" and the right reading "well you walk through the fire".


    Quietly, Tuesday said, "I''m glad you came. I''ve been really..." She shrugged one shoulder, picking at the hem of her navy blue flannel shirt. "It was hard getting anyone to listen to me, no one wanted to believe he was capable of, uh---" She glanced at him, face getting red, before ducking her head. "The cops couldn''t argue with the evidence, though, and they let me go. My mom, on the other hand, she still isn''t talking to me."


    After going silent for a few minutes, she suddenly said, "Cyrus, can you promise me something?" When he met Tuesday''s eyes, he almost flinched back upon seeing the desperation in them. "Whatever the hell your uncle is, I don''t wanna know. Don''t tell me, please."


    Cyrus couldn''t hold back the nervous laughter, some of the weight lifting off his chest. Then, biting his lip, he muttered, "What about me?"


    Evading the question, Tuesday replied, "There''s something about you, something..."


    "Inhuman?"


    Shaking her head slowly, she corrected, "Divine."


    Cyrus rose from the ground, facing the street so he didn''t have to look at her. His hands began to shake, and he curled them into fists.


    Tuesday continued to speak, her voice meek now. "You''re not like him. I know that."


    Grinding his teeth together, Cyrus managed to bite out, "I''m more like him than you know."


    "No. You just don''t know any other way. Can you not see the hold he has on you?"


    The tremors had spread from his hands to his limbs. Cyrus''s vision wavered in and out of focus, and he steadied himself against the wall, careful not to touch the freshly painted areas. The need came over him then--no, it was just a longing--and he yearned for some semblance of control. "I need to go," he whispered.


    "Well, I''m not done," Tuesday retorted, a cold edge entering her tone.


    "There''s something I need to do."


    "Kill?"


    The word hung in the air between them, and Cyrus couldn''t resist the order in it to finally look at her. Her eyes were devoid of emotion, and again, he would have given anything to know what she was thinking.


    Tuesday stared at her shoes, tangling her fingers together aggressively. "Your uncle, or whoever the hell, said you have to or you''d...die." By the end of the sentence, her voice was barely audible.


    Would he? Cyrus wanted to doubt it--he''d gone years without--but the hooks were deep in him now. He didn''t think he had the strength to go without long enough to test the theory.


    Still oozing nervous energy, Tuesday said, "You can''t hurt innocent people, Cyrus, that isn''t you."


    He averted his own eyes, thinking that she was dead wrong about that assumption. Energy was energy, and he hadn''t regretted where it came from.


    "But, if you''ll stop doing that..."


    Her grey eyes were hard with determination--or was that resignation?


    "I''ll help."

 17 § Fall from Grace

    Cyrus wanted to be alone. His wishes rarely seemed to be granted lately, though, and when he slipped down into the subway Moloch reappeared beside him. A shit-eating grin split across his face and he gave a low whistle, thumping Cyrus on the back.


    "You sure got your hooks in deep there," he said.


    The same could be said about the reverse; the idea of Tuesday and his own extracurricular activities mixing had no appeal. Cyrus didn''t want her anywhere near more death and destruction. It was unnatural.


    Moloch kept chattering, getting more and more suggestive until Cyrus decided it was better to just tune him out. He had never seen Moloch around, but the reaper must have found a decent hiding spot to have heard his conversation; this was far from comforting.


    The last thing Tuesday had said to him got stuck in a vicious cycle in Cyrus''s head; he''d asked her what it felt like to care about who lives or dies, and she''d replied, deadpan, "You already know." He wanted to chalk up all her observations as being grossly inaccurate, but the longer he dwelled on them, the more his guard went down. Cyrus did know what it felt like. He''d felt it when the sight of James Crocker''s wallet had turned Tuesday against him; he''d felt it when Delilah bled out right under his hands and there was nothing he could do to save her.


    The line dividing humanity from all the dark and twisted things that nightmares were made of was terribly thin, it seemed. Pastor Hale had dabbled in that darkness; Cyrus was gaining a conscience; and now, the nicest girl in New York was offering to play Grim Reaper with him.  Everything he thought he knew about the world was rolling over and dying, and the truths rising from those graves weren''t any prettier.


    Upon arriving back at the house, Cyrus sealed himself in his room, uninterested in seeing if Moloch would report the day''s events to his mentor. He needed the chance to think these things over himself.


    Cyrus tried for hours to think of a reason to turn Tuesday''s offer down, but came up with nothing. He had an addiction and she was prepared to supply the needle.


    It went beyond a simple craving now, anyhow. With every soul he took, he grew stronger; he would need to continue refining his abilities, and fast. His relationship with Acheron grew more tenuous with each passing day and Cyrus needed to be ready for anything. The first task at hand he must tackle would be gaining Second Advent''s faith; Cyrus couldn''t remain a pariah if he ever wanted to lead them some day.


    It would be no easy feat, and Cyrus knew he needed to fuel up. Acheron had preached obscurity and moderation to him...


    But screw moderation. Cyrus wanted a bloodbath.


    And as long as he continued playing the part of a dutiful soldier, he couldn''t see how Acheron could object. The demon clearly had some purpose for him, and Cyrus was not of much use at such low power.


    Cyrus slept soundly that night, having finally reached his decision.


    In the kitchen the following morning, Cyrus paused in the act of pouring out some cereal when he saw the hair on his arms stand on end. Seconds later, the familiarity¡ªand at the same time, totally alien¡ªof Tuesday''s presence washed over him. He changed course to open the front door and saw she was sitting on the porch steps, staring at the ground.


    Clearing his throat, Cyrus sank down beside her and asked, "How long...?"


    Tuesday shrugged, the black of her outfit contrasting dramatically with her pallid skin. Dark circles ringed her eyes, which were sort of red and bloodshot. Whatever brightness had survived her trip into hell had retreated into hiding.


    It seemed Cyrus wasn''t the only one with a bloodlust. Pastor Hale''s death didn''t seem to be enough for her; she was killing every last trace of the old Tuesday along with him.


    Sometimes her eyes would glaze over and she''d freeze, and any sudden movement from Cyrus would shock her back to reality and make her flinch. It wasn''t hard to guess what she was seeing, and it was clear from how on edge Tuesday had become that her dreams of blood and death weren''t sweet ones.


    When Cyrus asked her why she wanted to  help him, Tuesday replied, "After you...you know...when you were unconscious on the table it looked more like you were dead." Voice dropping to a whisper, she continued, "You''re all I have now. I can''t give this up. I can''t lose you too."


    After a moment, Tuesday added, "I''m sorry for coming over so early, I just had to get out of the house. My mom, she¡ª" her voice cracked, and it took a moment for her to compose herself. "She called me a lying whore."


    For once, Cyrus''s preferred muteness didn''t damper the conversation. He knew nothing he said would make a difference. Standing, he opened the door and beckoned her inside instead. Cyrus led her to the dining table, where he slid his untouched cereal over to her and took a seat across the table.


    "Thanks," she said quietly, the hint of a smile briefly touching her lips.


    They sat in silence until Cyrus could think of something to say. "How will you help me?"


    Tuesday bit her lip, twirling the spoon in her fingers and not looking up. After enough time had passed that Cyrus was convinced she wouldn''t respond, she said, "I''ll be your bait."The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Her motive finally clicked in place then, the one that explained her strange calmness about planning a murder. Priests and druggies weren''t on the menu; no, people like her own father were.


    This was personal, and she really was out for blood. Cyrus, for a brief moment, worried this would bring consequences.


    But he was too far gone to care. They both were.


    ¡ì


    The first of many arrived three days later, a man whose lasciviousness clung to him tighter than the two-sizes too small jeans he wore. Now that Cyrus had experience with the feeling, he had come to recognize its distinct high-strung nature. Nothing physically gave hint to the man''s inner demons, but then again, Pastor Hale had proven wolves can comfortably don sheep''s clothing.


    If the man''s energy weren''t enough indication, the chat logs between him and who he had thought to be a fourteen year old girl was the last nail in the coffin. It hadn''t taken much on Tuesday''s part to lure him here; she uploaded some pictures of herself in her school uniform and her hair in pigtails online, and within hours several men had messaged her, the texts starting as friendly and quickly nose-diving into obscene. Cyrus had no taste for the theatrics and effort involved and mainly steered clear of learning any of the details.


    All that mattered was the man approaching Tuesday, and the faint outline of the gun Cyrus could see sticking out of his waistband even from his position several dozen yards away.


    Tuesday had agreed to meet the man alone in Central Park after dusk, promising it would be their secret. Away from the lit path and hidden in a copse of trees, cloaked in darkness, Cyrus was sure he couldn''t be seen. He waited, fingers tapping his blade, until the man was facing away from him, sitting on the park bench and closing the distance between himself and Tuesday.


    The man snaked one arm around her, drawing her inward, and she seemed to freeze. Tuesday remained as still as a predator waiting patiently to strike; despite this, Cyrus could only read into it as fear.


    He crept forward, watching carefully as the two rose from the bench, one of the man''s hands clamping possessively down on Tuesday''s shoulder. Before he could turn and spot Cyrus, he had one arm wrapped around the man''s torso, pinning his arms there, and the blade was to his throat.


    Cyrus dug the knife in, muscles tensing to jerk it to the side, when he remembered Tuesday''s presence mere feet away. She was still frozen, but no fear existed in her eyes.


    There was nothing in them at all, the grey bottomless and cold. It made Cyrus''s hand shake on the knife. Since crossing paths with Tuesday again, he''d seen her as the sacrificial lamb. That perception was comically inaccurate.


    No, now¡ªnow she was the slaughterer.


    "Go," Cyrus snapped through gritted teeth as the man struggled in his arms. The tone of his voice broke Tuesday''s trance; she jolted back, gave him one last wide-eyed stare, then turned and fled in the other direction.


    As Cyrus dragged the man off the path, the latter wildly jabbed his elbows backward but never made contact. He had around 4 inches height over Cyrus and half his weight seemed to be concentrated in his biceps, but it was over in seconds, and the shock was enough to do him in.


    The man hadn''t expected to cross paths with another hunter that night.


    Cyrus''s hand slicked with blood and the body dropped limp to the ground. For a moment, he took in the feeling rushing through his veins--more potent than any numbed-up druggie could ever be--and then reality hit him.


    He hadn''t thought this through.


    Materializing behind him, a voice as dark as the night said, "Well, there''s one thing you''ve got right."


    Raziel stood, head bowed, staring down at the corpse with a grimace. He ran a weary hand over his face before turning away from the dead man and regarding Cyrus with exhaustion apparent in his eyes. The normal sarcastic cheeriness was long gone.


    "I''ll take care of the body," Raziel said quietly. "Lucky for you, your babysitter seemed to have more important business to attend to tonight, or I wouldn''t have risked being here."


    Why would you do that? Cyrus asked silently. He was beginning to wonder if this demon wasn''t much different from Acheron, and only wanted something for himself.


    "Figured I ought to remind you you''re in the midst of a war, and you can''t play for both teams. You need to start thinking about what it is you really want." Narrowing his eyes, Raziel jutted a finger towards the body at their feet. "Is this it?"


    Before Cyrus could formulate a response, a set of footsteps pounded against the sidewalk; Tuesday came around the bend, beginning to say, "Are you ok--" then her eyes landed on Raziel, and she came to a halt.


    Wordlessly, they looked each other over; the hint of dread entered Tuesday''s eyes but Raziel remained emotionless. After a moment, he shook his head and muttered, "Bonnie and Clyde, in the flesh."


    Raziel drew a dagger from his jacket, opening a dripping line across his forearm and saying, "I''ve given you plenty of favors already. Remember that when hell comes knocking." Kneeling to the ground, he fisted a hand in the dead man''s shirt and gave Cyrus one more reproachful look before muttering an incantation and disappearing.


    The sound of Tuesday''s gasp once again reminded Cyrus of her presence; it seemed to be very difficult to get used to the concepts of her and his darkness mingling. She stared at the spot Raziel had occupied moments before, mouth agape. Breath wheezing, she said, "What--what the hell--"


    Half of his attention was still on what Raziel had been saying, but Cyrus grabbed one of her hands and squeezed. Her eyes finally snapped up from the ground and met his.


    The adrenaline and man''s energy were still fresh and setting his nerves alight. On a hunch, Cyrus concentrated on the feeling his daily meditation gave him: a smooth, all-encompassing calmness. He felt it spread, the tranquility tangible in the air, and the tenseness left Tuesday''s shoulders. She gave a shaky sigh, closing her eyes.


    "Who was that?"


    "A friend," Cyrus replied uncertainly.


    "You don''t have a stellar taste in friends, do you?"


    Cyrus ignored this, glancing down at their still-intertwined hands. He slipped his free and replaced it against her back, ushering her down the path and out of Central Park. He left her at her own doorstep without a word, though they shared a long look before Tuesday finally entered her home. On his way back, the images of her coldly delivering a man to his doom swam through his mind.


    Black was not her color and darkness didn''t look good on her. It was wrong, went against her nature like an angel toting a pitchfork.


    Nonetheless, they weren''t about to stop. Cyrus needn''t even worry about dealing with the aftermath, either; upon getting home that first night, Acheron took one look at the blood staining his clothes and said, "If you agree to stop consorting with bottomfeeders, I will help you clean up next time."


    Cyrus, not expecting any real answers, asked just who Raziel was.


    "Just another scavenger," Acheron scoffed. "Another misanthrope who wants to be god. Remember that," he warned.


    Cyrus would. Raziel wouldn''t be the only contender for the title. The lack of wrath raining down upon Cyrus''s head even when he''d snuck around was the real concern; why had there been no punishment? Why would Acheron react so cooly to Cyrus''s new plan of attack?


    As he drifted off to sleep that night, the delirium whispered a suggestion: maybe even Acheron could be afraid of what was coming.

 18 § Come Hell or High Water

    After the unpredictable chaos his life had become, Cyrus was finally settling into a routine.


    His mornings were filled with new lessons, the skills of which he learned fueled by the souls he took in nearly each evening. New York had a surplus of monsters, and it didn''t take much to lure them out. He winded down from every high with careful meditation, then the next day the cycle repeated. Nothing connected the men he cut down; they all left no trace of their sinister extracurricular activities, and for the time being there wasn''t much worry of being caught. Whatever Acheron did with the bodies, they were never seen again.


    Cyrus''s training excelled. Every day brought a new success: honing in on more prayers and keeping a stable connection, purposefully affecting the physical world. With the excess soul energy through his system, these tasks didn''t take much out of him, and Cyrus was constantly floating on cloud 9. With all the control he was able to exercise, it still didn''t seem to apply when his emotions got in the way. This was particularly demonstrated one night when Tuesday caught him by surprise.


    The kills all blended together; each one began to feel the same as the last. The one exception came several weeks into the routine. Tuesday had played her part as decoy, still showing no sign of remorse at her actions or desire to quit. The problem arose, however, when she didn''t immediately leave the scene when Cyrus had his target under his knife.


    Experiencing a sense of deja vu, he snapped at her to go, but Tuesday remained: arms crossed, expression blank.


    The man struggled in Cyrus''s arms and slipped free for one second, Cyrus''s shock allowing the would-be victim to get a jab in with his elbow. Cyrus stumbled back a few steps, but in the time it took for the man to turn around to face him, the hand holding the knife slashed forward. The geyser of blood that spewed from the wound splattered over Cyrus''s face, but he paid it no mind.


    As the man gasped and gurgled at Cyrus''s feet, the latter turned an incredulous glare to Tuesday.


    "What?"


    "Oh, nothing," Cyrus snapped, "I just didn''t take you for a voyeur!"


    "I don''t get what you''re so upset about," she retorted, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. The man''s movements began to slow, the hands that had wildly clutched at his own throat going limp. Neither of them spared him a second glance. "Afraid I''ll change my mind?"


    The frustration reached a boiling point then. Before Cyrus could calm his mind and think of a response, the jet-black sky was suddenly pouring down an ice- cold rain that struck the pavement with fury. As the shaking subdued in Cyrus''s clenched fists, so did the storm, and the rain tapered off as quickly as it had arrived. It watered the blood off the pavement and slicked Cyrus''s hair down his face, dripping in his eyes. Tuesday was shaking, either from the sudden cold or the unnaturalness of the downpour--but neither of them voiced the suspicion Cyrus had caused it.


    "Did you forget there''s blood on my hands too?" she finally said, teeth chattering. Neither of them spoke again for the rest of the night, but the incident was quickly put out of mind. Tuesday never tried to watch him kill again, and the weather never threw another tantrum.


    For the most part, after delivering a man to death''s door, Tuesday went home; some nights, however, she seemed too reluctant to let the night end and followed Cyrus back to his house. It reminded him of a stray dog in a way, but he didn''t object. On one of these nights, Tuesday had fallen asleep as they sat in silence. Cyrus continued his meditation, though his eyes flitted open to look at her every now and then. In sleep, she resembled the old Tuesday, and he could almost remember a time she didn''t wear her darkness so openly.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    When she awoke, she caught him staring and blushed. "Sorry," Tuesday murmured, smoothing down her hair and rubbing her eyes. "I haven''t been sleeping well. I just--" She glanced up at Cyrus and shook her head quickly, looking down again. "Never mind, it''s silly."


    The two of them were quiet for several moments before Tuesday gained the courage to say, albeit in a whisper, "Sometimes I think he''s haunting me."


    She didn''t need to say the name; it was clear from the tremors in her voice. With confidence, Cyrus replied, "The human soul is recycled, it doesn''t stick behind." If such a thing as ghosts existed, which he couldn''t readily dismiss with all the weird shit he''d seen, they weren''t human and never were.


    Tuesday stared at him, lips pressed in a tight line. "Strange emphasis you have there on that ''human'' thing." When Cyrus made no move to respond, she leaned forward, eyes getting wider. "What exactly can you do? Besides, you know--" She waved her right hand, where the remainder of a thin pale scar was barely noticeable.


    Reluctantly, barely above a whisper, Cyrus told her everything he''d learned. The entire time, he stayed tense, waiting for any piece of information to finally be the last straw that sent her fleeing. Tuesday bit her lip, avoiding his eyes when he finished, but she didn''t seem afraid.


    "What?" asked Cyrus tentatively.


    Tuesday shrugged, laughing quietly. "I''m just feeling a little insignificant, is all."


    It was the most Cyrus had ever spoken in one sitting, but he felt compelled to reply. The first day she''d shown up on his doorstep, brighter than the sun itself, flashed through his head, as well as every moment he''d spent with her after. "You''ve got your own power."


    "Oh yeah?" she challenged, tone playful but her expression tense. "Such as?"


    "Charisma. The kind that leaders have." It had certainly worked on Cyrus.


    "You mean the kind Ted Bundy had," Tuesday retorted. Her eyes raised to the ceiling, and she sighed, laying down. She raised her healed hand above her face, idly twisting it through the air. "You ever just wanna feel normal again?" she asked, voice quavering.


    Cyrus joined her on the floor, staring up at nothing. The question seemed to have zapped some of his energy, and exhaustion tugged his eyes closed. He was still very much awake, though, when Tuesday spoke again.


    "Maybe we can have a little normalcy." She propped herself up one elbow, excitement lighting up in her eyes and driving away the storm. Her next words came fast, tripping over each other. "My school''s Sadie''s dance is in a few days, and yeah, I didn''t give that much thought at first, but it could be a nice distraction. A way to feel...human."


    Cyrus felt heat instantly rush to his face. If there was a hell, high school dances were a hot contender, and he couldn''t imagine Tuesday going to one. Not this new Tuesday at least, but Cyrus got the feeling this was about more than a dance to her.


    Seeing the look on his face, Tuesday''s voice dropped to a whisper. "C''mon, Cy...maybe it''ll be fun."


    He snorted at that, unable to contain his amusement, though it was short-lived. Cyrus covered his eyes with one hand, stifling a groan. It took a moment for him to choose his response, and another to gather the courage to voice it. Cyrus''s speciality was in the strange and tackling such a mundane issue took a certain measure of self control. "I can never feel for you the way you want me to."


    Cyrus kept his eyes shut, so he couldn''t see how she reacted. Her voice, on the other hand, hinted at no emotion whatsoever. "But you feel something." Tuesday let the words hang in the air for a moment, let them fester there, before continuing, "That''s enough for me."


    He finally let his hand drop, daring a glance at Tuesday''s face. Nothing broke through her stoic mask.


    "Well?" Tuesday prompted. "It''s rude to keep a girl waiting, you know."


    Cyrus allowed a little smile at that. Something must have possessed him then, because the idea didn''t seem so terrible.


    He could use a dose of normal.


    Seeing the resignation on his face, Tuesday laughed and threw a light punch at his arm. "Do you have something to wear?"


    Cyrus glanced down at his jeans and tee in confusion.


    Tuesday exhaled, shaking her head and rising to her feet. "Something else, you dork," she said, voice as light and cheerful as it had been in weeks. She gestured to the closet and raised her eyebrows.


    Thinking of the only things taking up space in there--a few more identical, plain shirts and slacks--Cyrus simply shook his head.


    Whatever entered her eyes then, Cyrus knew he wouldn''t like what it meant.


    "Guess we need to go shopping," Tuesday sighed, but nothing in her voice said she was upset about it in the slightest.

 19 § Baptism by Fire

    Several days later, Cyrus stared in dread at the suit hanging in his closet. He''d been demoted to a human Ken doll, shoved into one dressing room after another at a mall in Brooklyn until Tuesday deemed his appearance acceptable. Staring at the product of his agony, Cyrus did not see the intrigue.


    But if it meant getting out of the house to do something other than sulking in the shadows and staking out more victims, he was on board. The constant high he rode on wasn''t a negative by far, but Cyrus would be lying if he claimed it didn''t get tedious.


    He felt a dark presence fill the room and turned to see Acheron regarding him and the suit with distaste.


    "I still cannot comprehend how you think this is a good use of your time," he scoffed. "You''re getting soft."


    The image of Delilah suddenly thrust itself into the forefront of Cyrus''s mind, and he asked quietly, "Did you mean for me to fail?"


    Acheron''s eyes narrowed, but he responded, "Failure is a useful teaching. You cannot have everything handed to you."


    Cyrus mulled on this for several moments, thoughts always skipping back to the demon''s comment: You''re getting soft. Working his jaw, Cyrus said, "If I prove you wrong on that..." Then he sent a meaningful gaze to the suit, letting the question hang in his mind.


    The demon''s ensuing laugh was as cold and hard as steel. "And just what do you think you can do to fix that mess you started?"


    Cyrus didn''t respond, crossing his arms and waiting.


    Acheron exhaled sharply, glancing up at the ceiling as if God himself were watching and he wanted to express his annoyance. "Have it your way." He stalked back out the room, leaving Cyrus with the task at hand.


    When the answer came to mind, his first response was to recoil away from it. Cyrus was beginning to acclimate to the feeling the blood of the dark and twisted gave him, but spilling that of an innocent was becoming foreign to him. He steeled himself, knowing he had to prove his worth. Now or never; if he backed down now, he may never get the courage again.


    He had to show Acheron he could still do what he needed to, no matter how unsavory.


    Remembering not so long ago, though it felt like lifetimes back, when some members of Second Advent had complained about Cyrus scaring them, he meditated on this. When his mind had cleared, it didn''t stay empty for long; just as he''d been taught, he let the voice he was searching for come to him, and it transformed from an unintelligible hum to actual words.


    It seemed though weeks had passed, Delilah was still on some of the members'' minds. Cyrus heard his name and latched onto it, letting the images and thoughts follow. Clearly in his mind''s eye he could see two members huddled together in a room of the compound, whispering.


    "...still can''t believe he let her die."


    "Are you kidding? He didn''t ''let'' anything happen, he''s a fraud!"


    Cyrus let go of the scene, rising from the ground. He''d heard enough.


    He had his general course of action in mind but let no plan form; they''d never been much use to Cyrus. Whatever was meant to happen always seemed to be spawned by emotion, in the moment--he knew there was no way to prepare for this. As such, he didn''t attempt to, not even arming himself with his ceremonial knife. They''d already seen that weapon in action; it would not hold the same effect this second time around.


    In the hall, Bune was leaning against the wall. There always seemed to be a reaper around as of late, never straying far from Cyrus, so this did not come as a surprise.


    "Tell Acheron to meet me at the compound," Cyrus said to him. "He won''t want to miss this."


    Then he stepped out of the house with nothing to his name but the energy coursing through his veins, more excitable than an adrenaline rush.


    Raziel''s words came back to him as he plunged through the woods: Messiah, or son of perdition?


    Cyrus''s answer had never changed. There was no use in trying to change minds that were already made up about him.


    That left him with one option: prove them right.


    Upon reaching the compound, he sent the front door crashing into the wall; the faux living room was empty, but Cyrus knew those living below would hear. He descended the stairs, but not all the way to the basement. Around halfway down, he reached the room he''d seen and stopped there. From adjacent rooms people were already peering out, and their fear wrapped around him and only urged him forward.


    It wasn''t hard to imagine how Acheron himself kept anyone in line--fear was a powerful motivator. If it was too late to sway these people to Cyrus''s side, to make them believe in him, he would simply show them they had no other option.


    He did not have to play the role of a merciful god. The god they''d all forsaken was not a miracle worker himself, so this would hardly be a new concept.


    When a sizable crowd had gathered from the commotion, Cyrus stepped into the bedroom he''d positioned himself outside of. It was a tiny, cramped space with just enough room for two bunk beds surrounded by peeling grey cement-block walls. The two members from his vision were still there, eyes wide and waiting to see what Cyrus was going to do.


    "I hear you think I''m a fraud," he said lowly, the only sound on the entire floor.


    The two women opposite looked a lot alike: thin, appearing as fragile as china dolls with lank hair and the kind of pallid skin that came from spending most of your time underground. Cyrus could tell them apart, though: the first one who had spoken, the one who hadn''t called him a fraud, seemed to be the most afraid. Her knees knocked together, entire body shaking.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The other glanced between the two other faces in the room, letting the hint of confusion and fear come over her face, but her voice barely shook when she said, "Why do you say that?"


    "I heard you," Cyrus replied simply.


    "You just came in. You couldn''t have heard anything." The confidence was sucked from her voice, though.


    Cyrus was aware of the crowd pressing in further behind him, anticipation and dread tangible in the air, heavy enough to smother. He felt the looming darkness of Acheron''s presence, but the demon did nothing to intercede. It seemed everyone was at a loss, unsure where this was going.


    Turning to the other woman, voice deadpan, he quoted, "''I still can''t believe he let her die.''"


    She visibly gulped. Cyrus didn''t give her a second glance; she wasn''t his target.


    Turning to the other woman, he took a moment to size her up and let the trepidation fester. She tried to meet his eyes before quickly looking to the ground, tremors now wracking her body as well.


    "I''m not a fraud," he said, and several things happened at once.


    The light from the sconces lining the walls flickered erratically; the temperature seemed to plummet; and the woman Cyrus had his cold stare set on gasped, hands flying to her chest.


    Maybe this would piss Acheron off, Cyrus idly thought, but one human life held not much weight; this would set the example he needed, and there were always more where they came from. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, and the woman doubled over with a scream. Cyrus could almost hear her heartbeat in his own ears: thumping, pounding as if it were about to explode--before going dead still and silent. She keeled over, open eyes staring emptily at the onlookers.


    Quietly, Cyrus slipped back out of the room, the crowd readily parting for him. No one dared to breathe or speak, but some of their breaths came in shocked gasps and low whimpers.


    He met Acheron''s eyes on the way out, just for one moment, and thought he could read the emotion in them: surprise, but not disapproval.


    None of these people would question either of them again, and Acheron knew it.


    Before his actions could catch up with him--before he could really put notice to the trembling in his hands--Cyrus set out into the woods and back home. He was not followed. The trek didn''t require much concentration, and his thoughts went back to what he''d just done. No matter how fast he walked he couldn''t ditch the feeling that was forming in the pit of his stomach, churning there.


    What good was a conscience when it didn''t stop him from actually doing the act, just tied his stomach up in knots afterword?


    When he reached the house, though, these thoughts were replaced by new concerns. The sky had been painted over with shades of orange and red. Cyrus quickly struggled into the jet-black suit and matching slacks, not enjoying how the fabric chafed against his skin and clung to it so tightly. He felt too stiff in it, unnatural, and was rethinking the whole dance thing when the doorbell rang.


    Cyrus sighed, giving himself one last once-over before answering the door.


    He drank in the sight of her--black lace falling over her shoulders, flowing to her knees, exposing the sharp angles of her collarbones--before his face flushed and he looked away again. Cyrus mumbled a greeting; Tuesday didn''t appear at all perturbed by his reaction.


    She reached out and gently smoothed his hair down with her hands, before leaning back and smiling. "Well, you clean up nice."


    Cyrus didn''t know what to say. He figured that was his cue to compliment her, as if just the sight of her didn''t beg that enough. He stayed silent, though; he couldn''t find his voice. Even his thoughts were quiet.


    Again, the desire to call it quits slammed into him. Then Tuesday laughed softly and grabbed his hand, and he let her tug him out of the house.


    Cyrus wondered if she''d be so friendly had she known what he did earlier.


    Even from outside, the school nearly shook from the heavy waves of music pouring from the doors. Other students streamed around them, and upon entering the gym, Cyrus could have guessed there were several hundred people there--at least. His throat tightened and he shrank back from the feelings that attacked him from every side--he could feel the energy their mass presence left on the air.


    The lights were dim, and what existed of them flashed in multiple directions; the music made the ground vibrate beneath his feet and the effect made Cyrus dizzy. He''d never been somewhere with this many people at once.


    "Hey, it''s okay," Tuesday called to him over the music. She placed a hand over his heart and said, "Just look at me. Forget about them."


    Cyrus obeyed, watching the flashing lights accent different angles of her face and tint her skin pink, purple, and blue.


    He had no idea what to do. He glanced around, trying to take cues from the other teenagers but couldn''t understand just how they were moving their bodies to appear more graceful and less like--well, less like they didn''t know what the hell they were doing.


    He would have to stand with his earlier suspicion: high school dances were hell on earth.


    Seeing the panic in his eyes, Tuesday guided his hands to her waist and placed her own on his shoulders. She leaned in, and her presence seemed to overpower all the others; Cyrus settled his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes until the dizziness subsided.


    Then he felt Tuesday stiffen. He raised his head again.


    Normally he could have expected all the eyes to be on him, for everyone to be speculating what an aberration he was...but when Cyrus glanced around them again, he saw several pairs of unfriendly eyes on Tuesday. He was a stranger, unimportant to the scene, but it was clear Tuesday was an outsider in their own ranks.


    Cyrus turned them around so she was facing the wall. Her eyes stayed hard and she set her jaw, glowering at the ground.


    Still unable to find his voice, he tapped Tuesday''s shoulder until she met his confused stare. She shook her head angrily, and he could barely hear her response over the thudding music. "Half of these people go to Cross Fellowship."


    Cyrus grimaced. Funny how even in death Pastor Hale still had a hold on people.


    A voice cut over the music, and now that Cyrus was facing the offending crowd, he saw the skinny, red-faced boy who had spoken. "You don''t belong here, freak!"


    Anyone within a ten-yard radius turned to look. Under their stare, Cyrus felt more heat rush to his face, this time spreading through his entire body, extending down his limbs and to the tips of his fingers. His hands tightened into fists, and maybe if the lights weren''t already flashing, everyone would have noticed them flicker.


    "We have a strict no-killers-allowed policy here," the boy continued to shout. Tuesday ducked her head, shaking in Cyrus''s arms, but his attention was deadlocked on the boy.


    A brief warning flashed through his head, a reminder that he should calm down. Cyrus threw caution out the window and didn''t bother trying to slow his pulse or breaths. All he could focus on was the cruelty sparkling in the other boy''s eyes. Anger, white-hot, crashed over Cyrus in a tidal wave.


    And with no warning at all, the boy burst into flames.


    With a spark, fire came to life and licked up his jacket, incinerating it, smoking ashes falling to the ground. He gave a guttural scream, twisting and slapping at the flames but they only continued to devour, engulfing him. Then the other students began to scream as well, their voices joining into one high-pitched symphony drowning out the actual music, and they dashed for the doors, stumbling over one another.


    The smoke rising off the boy had reached the ceiling and set the sprinklers off; cold water began to pelt them from above, but the boy''s body was already lying still on the ground. The gym was deserted by then except for Cyrus and Tuesday, the latter of which regarded him with a wide-eyed stare.


    Taking a shaky breath, Tuesday sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders. With no other indicator of what she must have been feeling, she pulled Cyrus back into her arms.


    Normal, it seemed, was not in the cards for either of them.


    They continued to sway to the music still playing at the abandoned DJ booth, staying that way until You Shook Me All Night Long dwindled to a close.

 20 § Devil May Care

    For the second time, Cyrus entered his house dripping wet, dress shoes squeaking on the tile. Acheron didn''t make a comment on his appearance.


    Though it was nearly midnight, Acheron had a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. Taking a deep drink of it, he said with sarcasm dripping from his voice, "Did you have fun?"


    Thinking of what had happened, Cyrus only shuddered in response.


    The demon nodded in approval. "Good. It''s quite time for you to put aside the trivial and focus on your duties." Tone growing icier, he said, "You haven''t been much help with recruitments as of late."


    Shrugging off the suit jacket, Cyrus took a seat wearily across from Acheron at the dining table. He focused on the most pressing question in mind: how many?


    Acheron just stared at him, eyes narrowing.


    Sighing, Cyrus finally found his voice, though he couldn''t manage speaking above a shaky whisper. "I can''t be much help if I don''t know what exactly it is we''re doing here."


    Still regarding him with apprehension, Acheron said, "End goal? Upwards of a few hundred..." A small smile twisted on his lips. "...thousand."


    Cyrus blinked, unable to do much else. His shoulders went tense and he struggled to find his voice, but it had retreated into hiding again.


    "This is a very small operation, of course, but consider it training wheels. Take the feat you managed today; you are clearly capable of handling yourself in a pinch."


    "But why..." Cyrus tried to say, clearing his throat and trying again. "What do you need so many people for?"


    The coldness that entered Acheron''s eyes then seemed to spread through the whole room. Goosebumps rose along Cyrus''s bare arms and he stuck them under the table, out of sight. "What, did you think the world would do any better the second time around with the exact same blueprints?"


    Cyrus tried to make sense of this, but the pieces weren''t adding up. He''d always been under the impression their mission was to rid the world of all its negative aspects, to purify it from human sin--and if that meant taking a life or two here and there, so be it. The tone of Acheron''s voice, though, convinced Cyrus he was talking about much bigger plans.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    When Acheron saw the confusion clearly written across his face, he dropped his own voice to a sharp whisper. The red of his eyes flared to remind Cyrus of the flames that had devoured the boy mere hours earlier. "I know you know what happened to Janice Gladwin." He let that hang in the air between them for a moment, seeming to enjoy the shock Cyrus couldn''t mask from his eyes. Voice practically a purr, he continued, "But did you never figure out why?"


    When Cyrus said and did nothing, Acheron''s voice raised back to normal volume, filling with malice, disgust marring the words. "She was of no use to me. Infertile," he said, spitting that last word. "Tell me, how else did you think the world was going to start anew?"


    "I don''t understand," Cyrus mumbled, staring at the table, flinching under the anger pouring off Acheron in heavy waves.


    "Humanity is a disease. Not a speck of it will remain in this world when I''m through with it."


    Cyrus had never been aware of this version of the plan; he didn''t know Acheron wanted to wipe off everyone on the planet. But as he turned this over and over, it began to make him feel ignorant. The facts had been in front of him the whole time: the majority of Second Advent was young and female. There were a few men, but no one in their middle ages; the fact that Janice had disappeared right after her confession was the biggest blow. Acheron had always preferred the women...of course there could only be one reason for that.


    Then Cyrus connected this with the fact Acheron planned on making Earth ground zero, and a bitter taste flooded his mouth; it took all of Cyrus''s self control not to gag.


    He hadn''t heard of human-demon hybrids, but they surely existed, and there surely would be many of them if Acheron got his way.


    "Think about it," Acheron insisted, leaning forward and pinning Cyrus in place with a piercing stare. "No more pesky souls, no more remorse, no more humans, " he sneered, "to constantly place themselves above you. Is that not what you always desired?"


    "Why...are you telling me this now?" Cyrus managed to say, wrapping one arm around his stomach like it would keep the nausea contained.


    "You''re finally ready to hear it; that much was made clear today. I know you will not let me down," he said in a cheerful voice, standing and dropping his now-empty mug in the sink with a clatter. As he began to turn and exit the room, Cyrus asked one last question.


    "...and Tuesday?" He needn''t elaborate what he was really asking. Acheron''s willingness to keep her around needled at him, and Cyrus knew he wasn''t going to like the answer.


    Smile widening, Acheron said,  "She''ll make a good mother, don''t you think?...I''ll let you have that one though."


    Then he whisked out of the room, leaving Cyrus a shaky mess.

 21 § An Act of God

    He was alone, he was sure; he hadn''t sensed anyone following his trail. The night was quiet, in stark contrast to the battle zone that was now Cyrus''s mind.


    After changing into dry clothes, he had slipped his ceremonial knife in his shirt, the feeling of the cool metal against his bare flesh a reminder not to lose his head. Cyrus revisited some old haunts--Central Park, the drug den, even the sidewalk outside Tuesday''s home. There he paused, staring at the darkened windows for just a moment before continuing on his way. All the while, he was making his first prayer, focusing so hard on the name it birthed a splitting headache.


    As he whirled in circles, Cyrus saw he was still totally alone.


    Fuming now, Cyrus let go of all restraint and began yelling Raziel''s name.


    If he had ever doubted whether the demon had been spying on him, that uncertainty crashed and burned when Cyrus was able to say the name just twice. The clearing of a throat behind him caused Cyrus to whirl around, coming face-to-face with Raziel.


    The demon was leaning against an alley wall, calmly dragging on a cigarette. Exhaling a cloud of smoke in Cyrus''s face, Raziel clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Jeez, kid, I''m beginning to think you have a death wish." Baring his gleaming white teeth, Raziel added, "Takes a masochist to know one, I suppose."


    Before Raziel could lift the cigarette to his lips again, Cyrus had drawn the knife and used it to pin him against the wall, digging the sharpest edge into the other man''s throat. Surprise more than anything colored Raziel''s face; he made a slight choking sound and let out a groan. "C''mon, you could at least buy me dinner first, sport."


    Cyrus pressed the knife in deeper.


    "Alright, alright, whaddya want? But get that thing outta my face, you little gremlin."


    Cyrus took a small step back, keeping the knife raised in warning. Raziel snorted, muttering, "It''s not the blade that makes the man." Louder this time, he continued, "I gotta admire that spunk, though. Out with it already."


    But Cyrus had not been hiding his thoughts, and he didn''t feel like repeating himself. He stood his ground, fingers so tense around the blade''s handle that they had begun to ache.


    Raziel ran a hand through his already-tousled hair, groaning again. "You know that thing about death wishes? I was jerking your chain, kid, I don''t feel like dying tonight."


    Cyrus took a deep breath, and as he exhaled it, he imagined every dark and twisted thing about himself leaving with it: every kill, every secret, every doubt about whether he was going down the correct path. He projected his pain and frustration outside himself, and was rewarded by a slight but noticeable shudder wracking Raziel''s body.


    Raziel paused, eyes getting a little wide, but kept his voice controlled. "You think I''m afraid of a little tantrum?"


    Cyrus flipped the knife over and over between his fingers, and saw Raziel''s eyes dart from it and back up to his face. He shrugged one shoulder flippantly, eyes still wide.


    "Have it your way." Raziel turned his eyes to the street, giving it a once over before looking back to Cyrus. His next words were low and rushed, stumbling over each other. "There''s this whole order of things, as you know, and no soul goes without its owner. Someone dies, someone is born to take their place. Eighteen years ago Acheron disrupted the natural balance and a single soul, for a single moment, went unassigned." He stared down at Cyrus, wearing a stoic mask. "Lord knows what that cost him, but you understand what I''m saying, yes?"


    Cyrus stayed frozen, unresponsive.


    "Alright," Raziel said, glancing again at the street. "Time for me to get the fuck outta dodge. I hear Rio is lovely this time of year."


    It took no effort for Raziel to pry the knife from Cyrus''s now pliant fingers. He didn''t watch the demon, but heard the knife scraping against his skin. Before Raziel could make his escape, another presence, dark and smothering, filled the air. "Fuck," he breathed, just as Acheron''s voice spoke behind Cyrus.


    "You want to know what happened to your precious, goddamned soul?"


    The knife fell from Raziel''s hands, which flew up to clutch his throat as he began to sputter and gasp. Acheron stalked into view, curling his fingers into a fist, and Raziel seemed to choke harder. "You know what? I''ll deal with you later." He sent his hand outward in a swinging motion, and Raziel''s body went flying. It crashed into an alley wall and slid to the pavement limply.


    Acheron had been holding back on Cyrus; he hadn''t known demons were capable of that. Well, he didn''t know much of anything when it came to Acheron. Then again, Acheron didn''t know what he''d created very well either. The sight of what the demon had just done sent a thrill of fear through him, but also set his resolve. This wasn''t a mentor standing before him.


    It was an adversary.


    When Cyrus was able to meet the demon''s eyes, something in them made him shrink back. Acheron''s true face, all sharp-edged bone and hellfire, was more prominent then than the human mask he wore.


    "It''s been right under your nose for months," Acheron snarled. "But you felt it, didn''t you?"


    Cyrus was reluctant to realize the truth but it all clicked in place. A soul had gone unassigned¡ªCyrus''s soul. But all the natural laws dictated such energy could not be destroyed, so it had to have gone somewhere...


    Tuesday. It explained her unnatural brightness¡ªshe had more than her fair share. It explained his attachment to her, his unwillingness to ever burn that bridge down.


    And it explained why she had no power of her own. The day he''d confronted Acheron in the kitchen came to mind, and the comment the demon had made: the soul is a safeguard against magic.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Acheron glanced at Raziel''s still body and sighed, saying, "Well, we''ll have to take care of him--and everyone else like him eventually--and you''ll help me."


    Any walls Cyrus could have erected with a clearer head fell back, revealing the confused tangle of thoughts churning in his head; above it all was his need to retaliate, his refusal to play this game any longer. Acheron''s response was sharp and immediate.


    "Where do you think the girl is right now? And my reapers?"


    Cyrus heard the threat in that, and he had no doubt: the demon wasn''t bluffing.


    "She was simply a side effect of what I really wanted," Acheron purred. "I don''t need her."


    He stepped nearer, shadows dancing in his eyes. "You don''t either; you don''t belong with humanity. You never have. Care to know why I''m so certain?"


    "You''ve been a killer since the very beginning. The night I found you, I wanted to see what you were made of--" Acheron''s eyes went unfocused as he recalled the memory, a smile playing on his lips. "Your mother didn''t abandon you, boy. All I had to do was ask, and you slit her throat yourself as she slept."


    The memory of the siren filled Cyrus''s head, the sweetness in the imposter''s voice as it portrayed itself as his mother. All the anguish caught up with him with enough force to knock him to his knees. A scream scratched up his throat, struggling to get loose, but he didn''t make a sound.


    Was his entire life a fa?ade?


    "The longer you fight your true nature..." Acheron was saying. He clucked his tongue, shaking his head slowly.


    A freezing rain began to drizzle, plastering Cyrus''s hair to his forehead. Even as shivers overcame his entire body, he just knelt there, letting it drench him.


    "Is your curiosity finally sated?"


    Cyrus looked down again, counting the cracks in the pavement until he got his erratic heartbeat under control. He gave a single, curt nod, letting Acheron taste his fear.


    But he was finally able to throw up the curtain again, and Cyrus did not reveal the other things he was feeling.


    Cyrus had to suppress his anger at the news he''d been given. He was a pawn, that was clear now; his very existence could be chalked up to the simple fact Acheron needed him. Cyrus was just a part of the plan to end the world as they knew it and raze a new one from the ashes.


    It occurred to him he didn''t know what something like that entailed. He''d been a good little soldier, a loyal servant, and never questioned the ideals Acheron had laid out: all humans caused was needless suffering, and the slate needed to be cleared. They had to start again, make a world where mothers didn''t abandon their children and no one would feel alone ever again. Cyrus had been naive, and now the consequences of that were raining down all around him.


    The most painful truth of all squeezed his heart with a clawed hand and twisted: his mother hadn''t left him. He''d done that. This whole time Cyrus had been seeing the world through blood-tinted glasses; how much of it on his hands was completely and perfectly innocent?


    By the time Cyrus noticed the movement out of the corner of his eyes, his own knife was pressed into Acheron''s throat. Behind him, Raziel had a fistful of the other demon''s hair, forcing Acheron''s neck closer to the blade. In his ear he murmured, "This has been a good show, I''ll admit, but face it. You''re all foreplay and no action."


    Raising his voice for Cyrus''s benefit, Raziel continued, "I didn''t realize before how much of your energy you had to have drained all those years ago. As for our brethren, they were too nervous to get past your little shield here, no one knew what to expect from him--but it sounds like the kid''s grown a spine of his own. If he doesn''t send you back to whatever dank cesspool you crawled up from, I will."


    Face a stoic mask, Acheron replied in an emotionless voice, "Go ahead and try...but do you think the boy will let you? If my reapers feel their sire die, that girl he''s so smitten with will die before either of you can lift a finger to stop it."


    Raziel''s eyes flashed up to meet Cyrus''s. Setting his jaw, he said, "We all have to face our demons at some point."


    He jerked the knife.


    Or at least he tried to--but Raziel''s arm didn''t actually budge. He looked up from the unmoving weapon to Cyrus and cursed. Still beneath the blade but unharmed, amusement crept over Acheron''s face; he stayed absolutely still as if completely comfortable.


    "Don''t you wonder why he''s so hellbent on keeping you? He can''t go through with his plans alone! None of us have that much power on our own and no one else wanted to help him exterminate humanity," Raziel shouted. "But if we don''t do this now he''ll go into hiding and he won''t come back out until you''re dead. Your lifetime will pass like mere hours for the likes of him, and by the time you''re dead he may regain the strength to try all over again."


    But Cyrus''s thoughts were revolving around Tuesday right then, and the danger she was in. Though all good sense screamed at him there were more important matters at hand, all he wanted to do was get to her.


    But there was someone else who could reach her faster.


    Raziel stared at him in disbelief; he had gained enough control of his own limbs to dig the knife into Acheron''s neck just enough to open a thin wound from which a single drop of blood dripped. His hand shook on the knife. Acheron still appeared care-free, staring Cyrus down--a challenge.


    "Trust me, kid, you''re not ready for this--" Raziel began to object, and as he spoke, a devilish smile split across Acheron''s face.


    Something in Cyrus''s expression stopped Raziel short. He cursed again before withdrawing his hand only to fling it back down, cracking the hilt of the knife over Acheron''s head. He fell to his knees, but the sinister smile never left his face. Still muttering under his breath, Raziel drew the inverted pentagram on himself with the blood that had begun to drip down the other demon''s neck. He gave Cyrus one last look--full of anxiety--before the air seemed to shift around him and swallow him whole.


    As soon as Raziel disappeared, Acheron stood, idly brushing off his suit.


    "Alone at last," he crooned, straightening his collar and cracking his neck, rubbing it with one hand. "Maybe I am at half-power, but you''re still not ready to take me on."


    As Acheron began to advance on him, Cyrus heard a snuffling, scraping sound behind him and realized he wouldn''t have to, not on his own.


    Between the two of them, with the tension in the air darker than the starless night sky and hanging heavy, tangible, like fog, it wasn''t a surprise they''d attracted the creatures. Cyrus didn''t bother sparing them a glance, guessing from the multiple pairs of hobbling footsteps he heard that they had quite the gathering of rogue reapers on their hands. This was confirmed by Acheron when his lips pressed in a thin line, a twitch of annoyance starting above his eye.


    Cyrus remembered the last time the demon had wiped out a sizable crowd of the beasts and how much it had seemed to exhaust him. To kill them, or turn them on Cyrus, would not be an easy feat--but he knew Acheron would manage it.


    Cyrus didn''t give him the chance.


    Not thinking, not planning, not giving the approaching beasts a single glance, Cyrus imagined concentrating every drop of energy he had into a single, palpable force; all the while, he stared down Acheron with all the malice in his heart. Hearing the low growls resonating from the beasts'' chests, Cyrus leapt out of the way just as they surged forward, cutting through the space between them in a single instant. They fell upon Acheron before he could react, half a dozen writhing, emaciated bodies with talons they put to good use.


    As the demon flung one off his body, another took its place, and another, until he could do nothing to fend them off. In the whirling of teeth and claw and blood Cyrus could only make out brief images of the scene, seeing in one glimpse how they''d torn Acheron''s suit to ribbons. In another glimpse, Cyrus could swear he saw Acheron meet his eyes--and smile.


    He must have been seeing things, Cyrus was sure. He was sure of this for about three seconds, when he suddenly heard Acheron''s voice clear in his head as if the demon were right beside him.


    Have it your way, it said.


    The demon stopped struggling against his attackers and Cyrus was alone in his own head again. He had enough time to think it had been too easy, much too easy.


    Then came the explosion.

 22 § To Hell and Gone

    Each second that passed unveiled a new agony. Time seemed to slow to a crawl and stop, falling over dead; Cyrus was thrown back from the force coming off the carnage. For an immeasurable moment he was overcome by a familiar darkness and could feel as it seeped through his skin and past his bones and down into every fiber of his being.


    It wasn''t a real explosion, not a physical one at least, but for all intents and purposes a bomb might as well have gone off. He had felt the power given off by a hundred human souls but wasn''t prepared for this. Cyrus wasn''t even touching the demon, but he felt the thousands of fragments of souls the latter had once been made of infiltrating his body. With each one came the image of a new death, more suffering and destruction and darkness.


    In his next conscious moments, he became aware he was lying flat on his back on the damp pavement. The reapers were gone, the only evidence of their earlier presence being the blackish stains of blood staining the pavement. The body had vanished.


    Ashes to ashes...


    Ears ringing, head spinning, Cyrus slowly propped himself up on his elbows and hesitated there until the street he was on stopped tilting in his vision. From there he struggled to his knees, then to his feet, steadying himself against a nearby wall.


    Above him, the first hints of a new day were peeking their red-orange-pink fingers over the horizon. The sun was starting to rise; it was strange to think the previous day had started out so mundane.


    Strange to think how quickly everything fell apart.


    A splitting pain pulsed in Cyrus''s temples; when he moved, his vision wavered and everything he saw was painted dripping, bleeding red. He tried to pull himself together long enough to make it to Tuesday''s home, knowing he could only keep the horrors now inhabiting his body at bay for so long.


    When Cyrus reached the right part of Brooklyn, two figures waited for him on Tuesday''s doorstep.


    Tuesday was sitting, hugging her knees and shoulders shaking violently under the thick blanket draped over them. Several feet away, holding a cigarette in one hand and clutching his stomach with the other, was Raziel. Cyrus looked closer, only to see blood slicking the demon''s hands and spreading out in a small circle of his shirt.


    "That was her way of thanking me for saving her hide," Raziel muttered, taking a long drag and closing his eyes. He let his head fall back in theatrical exasperation. "Waste a couple reapers and this is what I get. Oh, don''t piss yourself, I''ll be fine," he said sarcastically.


    Cyrus turned to Tuesday, who wouldn''t meet his eyes. She shrugged, saying quietly, "Can''t be too careful," as Raziel continued to complain, "--used a bloody paring knife!"


    Raziel seemed to really take notice of him then, cocking his head and pinning Cyrus with a stony gaze. His eyes trailed up and down Cyrus''s form and he gave a nearly imperceptible shiver.


    "So it''s done," Raziel said lowly, no question in his tone. He let out a heavy sigh and pushed off from the wall he was leaning up against. "I wish I could say it''s been a pleasure...but if I see you again in this lifetime it''ll be too soon."


    "And just where are you going?" Cyrus managed to say, though each word fell heavy as an anvil from his mouth.


    Raziel half-turned back in his direction. "Hmm?"


    "New York City''s greatest menace is in splatters along Second Avenue. You planning to fill his throne?"


    Raziel flashed him a brilliant-white smile, winked, and continued walking. Cyrus watched until he disappeared around the corner, stomach churning, before glancing back to Tuesday.


    "So it''s over?" she asked tentatively.


    "Yes," Cyrus lied. "What happened here?"


    Tuesday played with the ends of the blanket, still shivering. Biting her lip with so much force it was a surprise it didn''t tear open, she said, "Those...people...killed my mother. When I heard the screams I tried to get out from my bedroom window but they kicked down my door before I could." She fidgeted with her hands, staring at the ground. Her teeth chattering, she continued, "Then your uh, friend, just appeared out of nowhere and--" She shrugged, voice dropping to a whisper. "They didn''t last long."


    Cyrus half-fell, half-lowered himself down beside her, clenching his hands in fists so she wouldn''t see them shake. He would do anything to break the tension; more frustration was the last thing he needed. "So...you stabbed a demon with a paring knife?"


    She blinked at him, paling, before the expression of shock froze in place. Tuesday laughed. "Yeah, I guess I did." Glancing over at him, she shook one arm free from the blanket and wrapped it around Cyrus. "What about you?"


    Cyrus just shook his head. He was done burdening her with the gory details of his life. All good things had to come to an end.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "What now?" she said softly.


    Cyrus breathed out, his chest hurting with the motion. "Call the police," he responded, rising. He had his own phone call to make. He started to leave when Tuesday spoke up again.


    "When will I see you again?"


    Trying to mask the goodbye in his eyes, Cyrus gave a small smile and shrugged before going on his way. There were still a handful of phone booths scattered throughout the city; he found one, feeding it coins he''d found off the sidewalk, and dialed three numbers. When the operator answered on the second ring, Cyrus told them where to find the houseful of captives back in Nassau County, Long Island. Before the person on the other line could ask for his name he hung up the phone and headed for yet another destination: Manhattan Beach.


    Someone fell into step beside him as he walked; Cyrus could feel Raziel''s distinct presence over the thousands of twisted souls feuding inside of himself. He did not bother to look up.


    "You knew what it would do to me," Cyrus said, voice devoid of emotion. Every part of him had begun to ache, invisible fire stoking in his veins. Clashing with the heat, a cold sweat slicked Cyrus''s forehead.


    "There was no changing your mind," Raziel responded, a sad resignation hanging in his own voice. "You''re too human to handle the power a demon''s death releases, but had you known that, would you have done any differently?"


    Even as several centuries worth of agony, courtesy of the twisted remains of souls that had made Acheron up, ate away at Cyrus, he couldn''t really say no.


    He would rather die human than live as a monster another second more.


    With the fresh supply of darkness surging in him, this feeling only amplified. Cyrus was crushed under the weight of it and he couldn''t hold it back much longer; he couldn''t face what crawled below the surface of his skin.


    "You had a good run, kid," Raziel sighed. "...did you tell the girl?"


    Cyrus shook his head, staring straight ahead. The beach was in view now, but he wasn''t sure his trembling legs would take him that far.


    "I''m not sure this will help her case much. Spend enough time chasing monsters and you become one yourself." Raziel paused before musing, "But you never know. The scales are tipping, the balance thrown off...and maybe that''s just what this world needs after all."


    Cyrus didn''t care about his philosophy. He didn''t have much left to care about at all. He''d paid one debt--though whatever happened to Second Advent when the police found them was out of his hands--but it wasn''t enough. It didn''t absolve him of all his sins.


    A thought came to mind then, bringing a humorless smile to Cyrus''s face: for weeks Tuesday had been trying to rid the world of bad men when the worst one of all was right in front of her. The weight of this truth had never crushed him quite this hard.


    Raziel''s hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him for one second. He gave him a long, hard look before nodding. "You found your way, Cyrus. Not everyone can say that." Glancing out at the water and shuddering, he gave Cyrus these final parting words: "Good luck."


    Then Cyrus was alone again.


    That was alright. He was used to it.


    Not bothering to strip off his clothes this time, Cyrus stumbled his way down the beach and into the water. With the shock his system was already under, the iciness of the sea made no noticeable impact upon his body. He let the waves drag him under, not fighting the current.


    There came the voices, the sound of a thousand bells ringing under the water, and again his mother''s rose above the others to whisper in his ear: It''s time to rest now, love.


    Content to obey, Cyrus let his body sink into the nothingness below him; fate had other plans, though.


    He was tugged from the water and a sick sense of deja vu hit Cyrus as he and Tuesday fell back into the sand, drenched and shaking. In gasping breaths, Tuesday demanded, "Did you--really think--I was going to let you die?"


    For a moment, he choked on the water that had entered his lungs, sputtering. The salt lingered in his mouth, making him gag. "How did you even know?" Cyrus mumbled, staring out at the water, still hearing the voices calling to him, begging for him to return.


    She fell silent, though he could still hear her teeth chattering violently and the wheezing of her breath. Then Tuesday finally said, "I''ve been having these dreams about you," and Cyrus felt his entire body tense up.


    "For a long time," she added sheepishly. "I never knew what they meant until now. I just kept seeing you drown, and somehow I knew where I''d find you."


    Cyrus spared her a glance, though his vision was going in and out of focus and it hurt to keep his eyes open. She was staring at him with wide eyes.


    "It probably sounds crazy," Tuesday whispered.


    Crazy held no meaning any longer. Cyrus shut his eyes. "You don''t know what''s happening to me, what I''m going to become."


    "You don''t either," Tuesday retorted, unaware of what he was really referring to, though it did give him pause. What if he didn''t? The darkness that had found a home in his sinew, marrow, down into every furthest reach, was too much to bear. Cyrus felt like he was being poisoned by it, and Raziel hadn''t seemed much more hopeful. What would happen when the dam burst?


    "We can learn to be human again."


    And maybe Tuesday was right. She was one to talk, considering she was the one with a soul--or two. Cyrus didn''t have that same redemption...but it was a time of firsts. He no longer had a psychotic demon to answer to; there was no telling the avenues that had opened for him, if he could only keep the negative energy bubbling underneath his surface in check.


    The frenzy of it was clouding him, filling him with visions of blood and destruction. His fingers twitched, remembering the feeling of them wrapping around a blade; his hands ached, recalling how they''d chased the lives from countless bodies.


    He wasn''t very sure he could keep the monster at bay, not now.


    But maybe he could choose what kind of monster he was.


    Salt from the sea and his own tears alike on his tongue, Cyrus wept. He wept for the priest and the addict and the mugger; he wept for his parents; he wept for every soul that had come after. Some tears even spilled for the fallen demon; after all, Acheron had been the only thing Cyrus knew for the majority of his life. A part of him wished things had ended differently¡ªbut Tuesday''s presence by his side steadied Cyrus.


    Raziel and Acheron weren''t the only demons out there, and Cyrus had a feeling if he lived long enough more would come for him.


    He would be ready. The world wasn''t perfect, it wasn''t pretty and it had the stellar ability to tear good people to shreds¡ªbut Cyrus didn''t see humanity in the same light as he once had. They were resilient, and complex, and hell, some of them were simply good.


    Maybe they could rebuild the world in their own way. The human way.


    Quietly, Tuesday asked, "Are you okay?"


    Cyrus just shook his head, watching the surf pull back from shore only to return, always returning, battering at the sand. He didn''t know what tomorrow would bring or if he''d even live to see it, but it was time he put his faith in something bigger than himself.


    It was time.

 1 § This Body is a Hearse

    All eyes were on the dark figure that had just stumbled into the diner, bell hanging above the door announcing his entrance cheerfully. If he hadn''t taken it upon himself to choose a seat in the furthest, most deserted corner, the other patrons of the otherwise quaint establishment would have surely taken new seats as far from him as the small dining area allowed.


    Shaking hands, hood pulled low over his face, exposing only small scraps of pallid skin--hardly was the newcomer a sight for sore eyes. The lone waitress on the floor had been unfortunate enough to have taken his orders several times over the last few weeks, and while most of her apprehension hadn''t ever been proven to be valid, she didn''t make her way over to his table eagerly.


    Winter was in full force, but the only thing he wore was a thin, tattered jacket that looked to have seen better days--maybe ten years before. The falling snow outside that had stuck to the coat was melting now, dripping down into a small puddle on the table. The chill had brought enough color to his skin that he almost appeared more human than ghost this time around; the waitress asked for his order timidly, though he always ordered the same thing. She scurried away quickly.


    As soon as she was gone, Cyrus finally looked up from under his hood.


    A flatscreen was mounted on the opposite wall. He had never watched television before his old-fashioned mentor was ripped to shreds by savage beasts; there was only one channel this one was ever turned to, and it rarely held Cyrus''s attention. Today, however, the current news segment caught his eye.


    It wasn''t the first coverage he''d seen, but it shocked Cyrus nevertheless to see it still had the media''s attention. A reporter, sporting a too-wide red-lipstick smile, and a familiar face were on the screen.


    He couldn''t remember the name of the reporter''s companion, but Cyrus had seen her often enough--back before everything had gone so wrong. In fact, the last time he''d seen her, he had killed another person standing just several feet away from her.


    The memory of the fear he''d projected outward, strong enough to stop the now-dead woman''s heart, wrapped around him. He clenched his fists so tight his jagged nails cut little red slices into his palms; this did nothing to still the racing of Cyrus''s heart. He attempted to focus better on the news segment, far too aware of the darkness lurking inside him, tensed and ready to make an outward appearance.


    "How are you adjusting to your new life, Ilene?" the reporter was asking. Below the image of her was the emboldened caption: SURVIVORS OF DOOMSDAY CULT SPEAK OUT.


    The accurateness of that could be debated. As long as the news had been covering the story, beginning a mere day after Cyrus had tipped off police, none of the former Second Advent members had said anything damning about him or anyone else.


    He had been right: fear was an excellent motivator. Even free of the compound and the watchful gaze of its founder, these people wouldn''t dare snitch.


    Shivering, scratching at her arms, Ilene said, "It''s been very...strange. I keep forgetting it''s just me now, that no one is going to hurt me if I do something they don''t approve of." She bit her lip, staring away from the camera. "Sometimes I wonder if he''s still out there," she added, and Cyrus was not sure in that moment just which monster the woman was referring to.


    The rest of their conversation faded into a dull hum as Cyrus stared at the table, scratching at the lines in the weathered wood. He felt the waitress''s presence when she returned with a plate of bacon and eggs, but did not look up. Seeing her was much harder than simply knowing she was there; his focus always seemed to zero in on people''s necks, as if he could see the blood pumping through the veins there.


    Cyrus didn''t risk coming out like this often, but he couldn''t survive without these occasional trips.


    He wasn''t used to quality in his food, especially for the last month or so. As of late, most of the time he scavenged through dumpsters and whatever else he had to in order to gather any scraps. But when Cyrus couldn''t manage that any longer, when the pains in his stomach became too much to bear, he wandered up from whatever places he found shelter in to come to the diner.


    He kept his order cheap and simple, but the protein that otherwise was missing from his diet kept him going for days. As Cyrus ate, his attention was pulled back to the television.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Ilene was gone, as well as the caption--it had been replaced by a new one: STRING OF SUSPICIOUS DEATHS--DOES NYC HAVE A SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE?


    "It could be speculation," the reporter was saying. "Our city is no stranger to violent crime, but Reverend Joseph is the third Brooklyn priest to have been killed in the last month. Police are looking into several possible leads, and urge the public not to panic."


    The fork dropped from Cyrus''s fingers, clattering to his plate. Several other patrons jumped, giving him startled looks, but his eyes remained glued to the screen.


    The shock almost made him forget about the creeping, crawling sensation scraping along his insides.


    The segment ended, and, clearing his throat, Cyrus forced himself to finish his meal. His stomach was churning now, threatening to render his efforts futile, but he didn''t know when his next decent meal would come.


    Especially with how bad he was getting. The tremors started up again in his hands; aggressively tapping his foot did nothing to relieve the anxious energy coursing through him. When he closed his eyes, blood seemed to drip down his eyelids.


    Cyrus thought again to that latest news segment, trying to distract himself from the hundreds of voices in his head whispering bitter somethings at him, begging for his attention. The priest thing had to be a coincidence; Cyrus had no part in it.


    It was a bad time to be a man of faith in New York City, it seemed.


    He briefly amused the thought that perhaps there really was a serial killer in the city, but quickly shut that notion down. New York may be massive, but there wasn''t room for another murderer. That identity was branded to the depths of Cyrus''s soul--or, rather, whatever was in place of a soul. The odds of another twisted soul wreaking havoc on the Big Apple were slim to none.


    When finished, Cyrus withdrew a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket and set them down on the table. For some reason he couldn''t fathom, he''d kept James Crocker''s wallet; the photo was long since gone, but he''d replaced it with whatever cash he could find around his former home before saying goodbye to it.


    Cyrus didn''t have much to his name, and soon his funds would run out. This thought only sent yet another wave of nausea over him, and he stumbled out of the diner on shaky legs. As he walked, head down, to the subway, Cyrus was pulled back in time.


    The memory was jumbled; he hadn''t been in a proper headspace the day he''d rushed back to Nassau County to gather what little possessions he had before the police could raid the place. Well, he wasn''t in much of a better one now, but Cyrus couldn''t help but think of it.


    The house had been silent--a waiting, anticipatory kind of silence that made him sure Acheron was not actually dead, and would materialize any moment to drag him to hell. This did not happen. Even as Cyrus nudged open the door to Acheron''s room, the demon did not come back.


    Though he had been in a hurry, the sight of the room made Cyrus pause. He had no clue what he had been expecting, but the lack of a bed still shocked him. The room was as bare as the rest of the house, but at the same time had the most furniture. There was a towering bookcase taking up one wall; a desk piled high with paperwork, manilla folders and composition notebooks; and a safe collecting dust in one corner. When the shock gave way and Cyrus regained the ability to move, it took almost to no effort for him to break the lock on the safe without ever physically touching it.


    He half-believed some ancient secrets would be hidden within its depths, but of course this wasn''t the case. If Acheron had anything like that lying around, it would not be so easy to find. Cyrus gathered the money from the safe, not really caring where the demon had gotten it from, and took off again just as the sound of sirens in the distance shattered the quiet.


    The harsh squeal of the oncoming train''s breaks and tires protesting against the track pulled Cyrus out of his reverie. He boarded it, once again sitting as far from possible from the other passengers, and stared out the window. They were still underground, and all he saw was the flashing various shades of darkness blurring together as the thing picked up speed.


    Somehow, that darkness pulled him under and lulled him to an uneasy slumber. As was becoming more common than not, Cyrus dreamt.


    It was the same dream as all the others that had plagued him since Tuesday had dragged him out of the water, saving him from the callous Manhattan Beach waves. It was even similar to the one he''d had before everything went to hell: it centered around Tuesday, but in this twisted continuation, the blood staining her clothes wasn''t the focus.


    Her black eyes were. Their normal greyness had yielded to shadow; eyes as cold and dark as that--Cyrus had only seen them in one other creature.


    When Cyrus jolted upright and out of the dream, the car was empty. He enjoyed his solitude for the mere ten minutes he had it; when new passengers boarded, he slipped past them. Cyrus grazed shoulders with another man and the voices in his head rose above their typical hum, howling at Cyrus to attack. He tamped them down as best he could, fingers flexing in his pockets.


    He didn''t know where he was headed. He never did these days. There was nowhere for him to go, not really, and until he scraped together some sort of plan he would not go anywhere near the girl from his nightmares. Cyrus was in debt to her, he knew.


    But coming so far only to succumb to his urges and kill her--well, that wouldn''t exactly be paying her back.


    As had been the case for longer than Cyrus could even remember, he found somewhere cold and dark and damp--and settled down for the night, the dream once again taking him over.

 2 § Lamb Raised for the Slaughter

    The walls of Cross Fellowship were slashed over in several layers of graffiti; after a fresh coat of paint, they just kept coming. The perpetrators--whether it be the many churchgoers who had since chosen different domains to serve their faith or someone else--went unapprehended.


    Tuesday Hale had stopped bothering to cover it up several weeks ago.


    The sight of the crude remarks never failed to stop her in her tracks. When Tuesday was able to compose herself, she entered the church, where an unimpressive gathering was waiting for her late father''s successor to preach. As she settled into a pew, choosing the furthest one back, she couldn''t help but keep glancing behind her at the door. The space she saved beside her never filled; the doors did not open again.


    She had stopped coming here for prayer as soon as she''d ripped the cross from her neck and denounced God. It had become a habit, from then on, to support the people she''d grown up around; her purpose evolved again when Cyrus left her alone on Manhattan Beach, saying he had something to attend to but he''d reach out again soon.


    Somewhere close to a month had passed, and all she had was radio silence. Tuesday knew he wasn''t going to suddenly show up now. For all she knew, he was dead in a ditch somewhere.


    Something in her, though, insisted this couldn''t be true. The dreams that had randomly come to her every so often as she grew up--only frequent enough that she hadn''t forgotten them entirely when she would suddenly be revisited by them--had stopped. Maybe they would come back, but something about the last time had felt final. Seeing Cyrus die--that had felt final, but he couldn''t be dead, not after all that had happened.


    He couldn''t have left her alone.


    She stared down at her feet, tuning out the sermon as everyone else bowed their heads and shut their eyes. Blood, from the things that had killed her mother and then died themselves, had soiled her old pair of tennis shoes. She''d quickly gotten to marring the squeaky clean surface of her new Chuck Taylors with more poetry. "I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night", something by Sarah Williams, was scribbled in sharpie across the toes. Tuesday didn''t know then if she agreed with the sentiment any more.


    They weren''t practical for the weather, but they felt familiar, and there was great comfort in familiarity. It was maybe the only comfort she had those days.


    Tuesday couldn''t make herself close her eyes in prayer; every time she did, a twisted recap of everything she''d lived through played against their backdrop, a horror movie she didn''t remember auditioning for¡ªand yet, she''d played the supporting role willingly enough. Even if she kept them open though, the memories attacked her in flashes. The one she spent the most time dwelling on was the night she''d lost her best friend.


    To think that day had started off so nicely.


    She''d been on the floor beside her bed, unable to turn off her racing thoughts as the dance replayed in her head. Tuesday hadn''t slept in her actual bed since her father had died; any traces of what had happened were gone, but she could feel the ghost of him weighing her down any time she attempted to sleep there. So she lay wide awake on the carpet, staring at the posters above her bed of all the places she wanted to see--and that''s when she heard it. A knock on the front door.


    Tuesday remembered sitting up to read her alarm clock--it was a little past midnight--when her mother let out a guttural scream.


    She''d only heard screams like that in movies, and they didn''t do this one justice. It pierced through the otherwise quiet house, reverberating off the walls and bouncing back at her seemingly from every direction. In just a second it cut off, and the silence returned. Tuesday had sat in the darkness, not daring to move a muscle, swearing she had been able to fall asleep after all and it was just part of a wicked dream.


    Then came the footsteps, pacing down the hall in the direction of her bedroom.


    Tuesday had experience with monsters. One had lived in her father; despite all her best efforts to tamp down her suspicions and only focus on the warm feeling that rose in her anytime she was near Cyrus, one lived in him too. By then she was fully aware of her own demons and if anything, she''d embraced them.


    She was not prepared for real monsters.


    They were upon her before she could escape, kicking the door open with such force it rattled in its frame and nearly came off its hinges. The two men looked human enough, but the eerie smiles twisting on their lips--and the fresh blood staining their clothes--told her otherwise. One pinned Tuesday''s arms behind her back and held her in place, fighting off her attempted counter-attack with ease. The other watched, his smile growing even wider, and tapped the serrated blade of a hunting knife against his chin. She couldn''t hear whatever taunt spilled off his tongue with all the static in her ears.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    The other one whispered directly into her ear, though, and she caught this: "Settle down, now, girlie, or we''ll have a little fun while we wait."


    The fight left her body as she stared into the one man''s eyes, sure she saw a cold resolve there. That''s when Tuesday was sure she was going to die. Life hadn''t been all that desirable as of late, and Tuesday couldn''t remember feeling any fear at the realization.


    A noise echoed back to them from the hall then, a low hiss. The two men in Tuesday''s room stiffened; she felt the hands on her tighten. Eyes going wide, the first man lifted the knife and crept out of the room.


    Not three seconds later, a scream even more animalistic than her mother''s sounded in the air and what could be seen of the hall lit up blindingly white. The hands loosened from Tuesday''s arms and she threw her hands up to block out the light.


    "Stay awhile," a voice purred from the doorway. "We were just getting to the good part."


    It was the man from the park--well, not a man, considering men couldn''t disappear into thin air, but Tuesday had enough to process at the moment without that fact. He gave her a quick once-over and winked. "You might wanna close your eyes, doll."


    For a moment, she forgot how to do so and watched as the second intruder flung himself at the window. He hadn''t made it two feet when the newcomer turned a cold glare on him and crossed the room in seconds. Tuesday finally shut her eyes just as the room was again thrown into total brightness; she heard a sizzling behind her and clenched her eyes closed even tighter, covering them with a shaking hand.


    When another hand landed on her shoulder, she bolted from the room. He was right on her tail, she could feel it, but this only spurred the adrenaline coursing through her. Tuesday made it to the kitchen, sliding the first knife her fingers touched from the block on the counter when the man had caught up with her.


    She turned and jabbed the knife into his stomach.


    A string of expletives left his lips as he stumbled back, clutching the handle protruding from his abdomen. Now the full force of his stare was on her as he said under his breath, "Sometimes I think this whole vigilante thing is overrated." He let out a hiss as he slowly pulled the knife out, letting it drop to the ground. "Now listen to me very carefully. We''re going to have more company soon, and there''s a good chance it''ll be far worse than me."


    Tuesday had stared wordlessly at him. He took a deep breath, opening his mouth to speak again--before groaning and sliding to the floor. "Before you ask, no, you did not incapacitate me with a paring knife," he muttered. "I didn''t know how much killing those things would take out of me."


    They''d remained in their places for several minutes, quiet, looking each other over. Seeming to have regained some of his energy, the man slowly picked himself off the floor, glancing at the clock on the wall. "This is either very good or bad," he stated before whisking out of the room. In her effort to follow, Tuesday''s feet hit something solid on the ground and she was sent careening into the wall, balancing herself with her hands splayed on it.


    When she looked down, she saw she was standing in the blood seeping from the gaping cut across her mother''s throat.


    The next moments were hazy. Tuesday didn''t remember how she reacted, or how she ended up outside on the porch, but then the memory picked back up an immeasurable amount of time later. The man was standing several feet away then.


    "Trust me, there''s a thousand places I''d rather be," he muttered, staring up at the black sky. "But if the boy gets this right, things just might go back to normal."


    She couldn''t say anything to this. She couldn''t remember what normal was, or why she should even care. Two monsters had been disintegrated into a pile of ash and she had just been orphaned.


    Her mother''s cruelty vanished from her mind. All Tuesday could think about was her body.


    She''d never get the chance to fix her relationship with her mother now.


    Back in present time, the sermon was coming to a close. Tuesday was shaken from her thoughts as people rose from the pews and passed by. She was the last to leave, giving the statue of Jesus one last look before deciding she would never come back to that place.


    After all, she was no longer the pastor''s daughter. It was time to stop pretending.


    If absence made the heart grow fonder, at this rate she might as well profess her undying love for Cyrus. It didn''t reach that far, Tuesday was sure, not really¡ªbut what difference was there when she cared enough to die for the kid?


    Not that the occasion would rise. Certain doom, or whatever the man had been prattling about, had apparently been averted; Cyrus, after having done whatever the hell he had been up to that hellish night, was not coming back to her.


    She felt the remnants of him, scarred upon her soul, though. It ached, the memory of every single thing she''d done since crossing paths with the boy again. Back in grade school, Tuesday just remembered him as the quiet kid who had no friends. She had been stuck with that image for the longest time, and when she finally came to terms with the truth about what Cyrus was¡ªwell, it was too late for her.


    If there was a hell, which she was beginning to doubt in the fire-and-brimstone sense, Tuesday Hale was surely condemned to it.


    It was a long walk to the subway entrance that would take her to her new home in the Bronx. She passed her old house on the way, stopping for just one moment to peer into the windows. The curtains were drawn and did not reveal whether things had changed; a sign still was posted out front, proclaiming that the unit was still up for rent.


    It didn''t hurt to move on from there. Home isn''t where family is in every case, and the real blood that had been spilled there only served to push Tuesday away even further. Then again, maybe the saying had it wrong all along¡ªmaybe home is where the hurt is. Whatever the case, she was glad to put it behind her, but couldn''t get away from the sense that she couldn''t run away from all her problems.


    After all, what goes around comes back.

 3 § Where the Hurt Is

    Cyrus had a lot of spare time on his hands lately. What he normally would have filled with meditation and self-reflection had withered away into something darker; after all, he wasn''t alone in his head any longer.


    Whatever lived inside him now, it wasn''t sentient, he was sure. It never interacted with Cyrus directly beyond expanding his bloodlust. He knew from his teachings souls were reused, but each one left remnants of what they were behind--shedding whatever darkness, or the opposite, that had tainted them back into the world. Each new birth was a new opportunity, the slate for that soul wiped clean...but all that leftover energy had to go somewhere. It had created Acheron, and now that the demon was dead, it was inside Cyrus.


    Sometimes memories that were not his own, but still frighteningly familiar, invaded his head and clouded all other thought. Cyrus had no choice but to let them come, had no choice but to relive them as his own.


    Had it been just like this for Acheron? As much as he hated to emphasize with him, Cyrus had to admit it was hard to tamp it down; after a while, their urges mixed with his until it was hard to remember what he himself truly wanted.


    Cyrus awoke, curled up on a pile of newspapers somewhere down in the Brooklyn subway system. The remnants of the latest soul-induced memory still had his mind in a haze. As he became more alert, it became harder to recall, but the basic events he''d been dreaming of were still there. Instead of the strange prophetic scenes he''d been getting used to, he''d had a killing dream.


    It left the taste of blood on his tongue. For several minutes Cyrus stayed on the ground, his entire body shaking. The winter chill had invaded the subway and seeped easily past his thin jacket, only making the tremors even more violent.


    Then came a sound that made him freeze: heavy flesh being dragged across the cement followed by a hoarse snuffling.


    It was enough to get Cyrus to his feet, bloodlust temporarily replaced by a surge of adrenaline. It was early morning; there were several people already down here with him, waiting a good distance away by the tracks for the next train. From behind him, in the total blackness, the sound was only growing louder.


    This wasn''t the first time the rogues had found him since he''d gone off on his own. If they had truly been a rare sight in the city before, Cyrus''s new disposition must have drawn them in from whatever holes they''d lived in, hundreds or thousands of miles away.


    Sometimes they were a welcome sight. It took nearly no effort on his part, no conscious thought, to totally incinerate one or two of the creatures at a time. Cyrus normally ended up passing out after these feats, but he was also normally alone.


    Glancing back at the blissfully unaware people near the tracks, Cyrus took off in the other direction. He heard the hobbling, scraping footsteps follow, but he was faster, and he came upon a deserted bathroom before the creatures could catch up.


    Maybe luck was on his side for once; there weren''t many accessible restrooms left down in the subways. He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, panting, knowing he had only bought himself a small amount of time to decide on his next course of action. It might have been in Cyrus''s head--his vision was kinda wavering and his thoughts were an incoherent mess--but it seemed like the pale overhead lights flickered. The already grimy mirrors, coated in a generous layer of dust, seemed to fog up even further until Cyrus couldn''t make out his own reflection in them.


    Behind him came a tiny squeak. He turned just in time to see the door handle jiggle once, twice, before slowly pointing downward to the floor. With a click, the lock retracted and the door slid open a crack.


    That was new.


    Cyrus threw all of his weight into the door and it shut again, but another body began ramming into it on the other side. He only had a few seconds to marvel, and shudder, at the creatures'' newfound intelligence. All the rogue reapers he''d seen up to this point were animalistic, slaves to their urges and about as smart as the rats that called this place their home. Since when did they have the mental capacity or forethought to open doors?


    The only time he''d seen these things do something uncharacteristic was when they were under someone else''s control. Cyrus himself had been inside their heads now, had commanded them to go against their own gut instincts and do his bidding; this was not a foreign concept.


    So who was commanding these ones?


    The door shuddered beneath him again, and Cyrus had to quit with that train of thought. Eventually someone would wander past, and there was only one way that would end: bloody.


    Not seeing any other options, Cyrus withdrew his knife from the inside pocket of his jacket. He hadn''t dared touch the thing since Acheron''s death. It fit into his hand easily, weighing next to nothing; a contented humming started up in his head. Either his cohabitors approved of the decision or Cyrus was losing his fucking mind; on second thought, it was probably both. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to revel in the moment too long--


    --then stepped away from the door. It crashed into the opposite wall, and in strode three pale, skeletal beasts. They all rested their weight on their haunches, coiled to spring, regarding Cyrus with surprisingly blank stares. There wasn''t a frenzy in them; there was nothing. They were like doll''s eyes, emotionless and cold.


    This only strengthened Cyrus''s suspicions, but no one else was waiting outside the restroom; the door swung shut again just as the rogues pounced.


    Whatever happened next, Cyrus wasn''t completely aware of. The following moments passed in a bloody blur. His knife had become a part of himself, like a new limb; Cyrus was barely conscious of his movements as he slashed and stabbed. The staticky hum in his ears rose to a crescendo, until it was a chorus of screams, begging for carnage.


    He obeyed. He had no choice anymore.


    It was over quickly. Before Cyrus could really savor the moment, he was left with an ash-strewn floor; it hadn''t been much cleaner to begin with, so this didn''t make much of a difference. His knife was slicked and dripping with something black; with mechanical movements, he ran it under the nearby tap, avoiding the mirror. He didn''t want to know what he''d see staring back.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    When he had cleaned himself off, Cyrus noted he was still gripping the blade tightly; his hand was no longer shaking. These kills did not give off much energy, but it had calmed the bloodlust for the time being. His head was, for the most part, quiet again.


    Cyrus let out a heavy sigh, slowly stowing the knife away. It felt heavier in his pocket now, like he''d stuck a brick there instead. Again he was faced with the probable reality someone was after him.


    It''s not as if he didn''t know to expect this. Acheron was apparently infamous, and as soon as word of his death had spread, well...it couldn''t have been long before others replaced him, all wanting a slice of Cyrus''s power. But this attack was simple, and whoever was behind it hadn''t shown their face; it was almost as if they were testing the waters, seeing just what Cyrus was capable of.


    Like he hadn''t had enough baggage before.


    Cyrus finally gained the courage to look into his reflection, smearing the grime away from the mirror in a decent-sized strip. His skin was the color of a weathered tombstone; his hair was lank with oil. He felt like he''d just gotten back from a long excursion in hell, but if he was being honest, he didn''t appear all that different from all the other homeless people in New York. Something had been on his mind for awhile, a faint idea lurking in the recesses, waiting for an appropriate time to be addressed. With his darker urges under better control, Cyrus saw this would be his best opportunity.


    He didn''t bother taking the train; his metrocard was almost out of swipes, and Cyrus wasn''t eager to dip into his savings to replenish them. The walk to the library took several hours, but what else did he have to do? When he got out of the harsh cold and into the dimmer, quiet building, it seemed everyone looked up at his entrance. Cyrus ignored them, approaching the nearest librarian to ask in a timid whisper where he could look up newspaper archives.


    The woman shuddered at his proximity and he averted his eyes; after a beat of hesitation, she led him to the right floor of the library and quickly left him alone near a bank of computers. It took another hour to sift through results, looking through coverages of suicide after suicide in the general time frame Cyrus could estimate. By the time Cyrus had loaded the article he wanted, he noted the computer mouse was shaking under his touch. Already a slight tremor had started back up in his hands; he released a shaky breath and stared harder at the screen in front of him.


    The article was about twelve years old. There was an obituary included, a face at the top of it that stirred something deep in Cyrus''s chest--though he couldn''t understand what. And the name that prickled at him too: Nicole Miller, who according to the article had taken her own life and would be very missed.


    Miller. So that was Cyrus''s true last name. The news had him leaning back in his chair, eyes going unfocused.


    It was so...mundane.


    His eyes began to sting; before the tears could come, Cyrus forced himself to pay attention and scroll further down, searching for an address. Upon finding one, he scribbled it down on a nearby scrap piece of paper and set back out into the cold. A light snow began to fall, making everything appear even brighter than it truly was; he would have killed for a pair of sunglasses.


    That was an unfortunate thought. Cyrus grimaced, thrusting his balled-up hands in his pockets, and quickened his pace. According to the article, his old home was located right there in Brooklyn, not too far from Tuesday''s townhouse. He couldn''t fight the pull any longer, and opted to take a route that passed in front of it--he just wanted to be sure she seemed alright. He wouldn''t stop, wouldn''t visit; Cyrus just had to see.


    Upon passing the townhouse, however, he was met by the FOR RENT sign. If his stomach hadn''t been empty, Cyrus might''ve thrown up. Tamping down the nausea that was churning in him, he ducked his head and continued walking.


    He arrived at the correct address fifteen minutes later; a small, overly cheerful house stared back at him. The walls were pastel; fake flowers were planted in a thick line across the yard; bright pink shutters adorned the windows. Cyrus glanced at the scrap of paper, double-checking, but he was at the right place.


    There was a teal Mini Cooper parked in the driveway. The sight of it made Cyrus wince; he had been hoping to be able to slip in and out undetected. Unclenching his fists and attempting to shake the anxiety from them, Cyrus squared his shoulders and walked up the path. After ringing the bell, the door swung open after five seconds.


    A woman with a bright smile stood on the other side; upon seeing Cyrus, the smile wavered, taking on a forced appearance. "Ah, hello, can I help you?"


    He worked his jaw, trying to think of a response. If words had ever been hard for him, they were nearly impossible now; he hadn''t found a need for his voice in a very long time. Watching Cyrus struggle, the woman''s smile disappeared completely.


    She began to call out a man''s name, presumably her husband judging by the gaudy ring sparkling on her finger. Cyrus finally spoke. "I used to live here. Would you mind if I just take a look around?"


    The ensuing grimace on the woman''s face told him, yes, she surely did mind. But she looked him up and down, biting her lips, eyebrows furrowed; her fear washed over him and Cyrus shivered. "I, uh, suppose you can come in for just a minute..."


    She slowly opened the door wider, regarding him with wide eyes. The man appeared then, looking between Cyrus and his wife before gaining a similar expression. His hand went to his pocket, and Cyrus held his breath. If the man tried something, Cyrus didn''t think he could hold himself back.


    They didn''t speak, following Cyrus from a careful distance as he crept through the house. It sparked no memories for him, nothing very clear at least, but seemingly of their own accord his feet led him to the living room.


    The room was just as garish as the outside of the house, too many colors and patterns incorporated into the layout. A leopard print throw rug sat beneath a leather couch draped with a platinum-colored blanket. Cyrus stared at the sofa''s position against the far wall, a memory struggling to come to the forefront of his mind; he could swear his own couch had been on the other side. Nothing else came to him, but staring down at the spot where he was standing, a cold feeling washed over him. The carpet was pristine and white, but Cyrus could almost see through it, see to the blood that been bleached from the hardwood floor beneath it.


    So this was it: this was where he''d killed his own mother.


    "What?" the woman timidly asked behind him. Cyrus cleared his throat, ignoring her, though a blush seeped into his cheeks. He half-turned towards her, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.


    Whatever he''d been expecting to find here, it was long gone. Cyrus himself had told Tuesday once ghosts weren''t real--but a part of him had been hoping something more had been left behind, a bigger imprint of the past. All he felt was a faint memory, and all it brought him was pain. His mother was long gone, and he would never be able to right all his wrongs.


    He kept drifting through the house, happening upon a room about as small as his own at Acheron''s had been, just a few feet wide. He could nearly imagine a crib fitting there, though the current furnishings were a lone desk crammed beside a stack of boxes. This place hurt to look at too, the sight of it sinking heavy in Cyrus''s gut. He knew this was where his father had died. Had Cyrus killed him, too?


    It was beginning to seem easier to ask who Cyrus hadn''t killed. The body count weighed on him, tallying up in his mind; voices rose up from the ruins of his thoughts, choking him with their bitterness, urging him to only add on to that list. Without a word he bolted from the room and back out of the house, not stopping until it was out of view.


    Maybe there would never be a place Cyrus could call home again.

 4 § Old Habits

    The most recent kill had not kept Cyrus''s demons at bay for long. Within days, he was desperate to a point he''d never known; he knew nothing would take the edge off now, no animal or beast or anything in between.


    Cyrus scratched the skin on his arms until it was raw and angry-red; it did nothing to drive the darkness out. He could never quite reach it, the feelings bubbling and threatening to boil over inside him. He was beginning to suspect the only way he would never hurt anyone again was if he were dead.


    He should have died that first night. It would have saved the world, and Cyrus, plenty of suffering.


    A part of him was ready to take the knife and slash his own throat--it would be damn poetic--the darkness residing in him never seemed to let him. It wanted Cyrus alive; it wanted Cyrus to wreak havoc. And if it weren''t for the other thing that would eat him alive if he were to relent to his murderous tendencies--his somewhat intact conscience--Cyrus would have given up a long time ago. The old him wouldn''t have cared who had gotten hurt.


    This new him, this fragile and crumbling version of himself, did. Cyrus could think of only one thing that might numb his pain, if only temporarily, and he spent half of a night wandering the streets of New York seeking it out.


    The old house he''d found and killed a junkie in was deserted. Maybe everyone else could sense the negativity surrounding the place, the darkness Cyrus had left there. New York was for the dreamers and Cyrus gathered there wasn''t much of a line dividing himself from them: they all fell victim to their baser instincts eventually, and when you hit rock bottom you either drown...


    Or you drug yourself up to ignore the fact you''re still, in fact, drowning.


    This considered, it wasn''t hard to find another similar house in a seedy neighborhood. The foundation shook from the thunderous music coming from inside; lights flashed from the windows erratically; the surrounding area reeked heavily of weed. In his days on the street, Cyrus had become quite accustomed to its musky odor.


    Crossing his fingers whoever was inside had something a bit stronger than marijuana, and not giving himself time to think it through or chicken out, Cyrus strode straight up to the door and knocked.


    It took several minutes for someone to answer; then the door cracked just an inch, a wide, bloodshot eye staring back at Cyrus through the gap. It looked him over before narrowing and the other man said, "Get lost," in a gravelly voice.


    Cyrus''s hand shot up and stopped the door from shutting. The other man flung it open, revealing his taller--though just as slender--form. His face was pockmarked, his limbs twitchy. He couldn''t even keep his eyes on Cyrus; they kept darting around in every direction. It wouldn''t be hard, Cyrus mused, to scare him, but he was also worried what impact the drugs the man was on would have on his behavior. Producing a wad of cash from his wallet, painfully aware of how thin it was growing, Cyrus held it out in the space between them and waited.


    The man regarded him with his twitchy gaze for several moments before grunting and swiping the cash out of Cyrus''s hands. He shoved Cyrus inside and shut the door again.


    The lights he''d seen from outside came from some kind of speaker; the lights seemed to flash in time with the beat it was projecting. Beyond that, there was no other source of light inside the house, but Cyrus could make out the forms of half a dozen people in the room with him. None of them looked up at his entrance.


    The man who had opened the door reappeared, shoving a plastic bag about as long as Cyrus''s pinkie finger into his hand. He stumbled away again without a word, crashing down on a couch full of holes beside a woman who was rolling a joint. Cyrus looked away as they fell on top of each other, the woman''s handiwork momentarily forgotten, and back down to the bag in his hand.


    What the hell was he doing?


    Oh, right. The tremors started up again even more violently, almost making Cyrus drop the bag. Smoke was heavy on the air, but through it Cyrus could still feel each person''s presence, as drugged up as they were. He sank to the floor as far from the others as possible, but was forced to watch them when he had no idea what to do with the white powder in his hands. He didn''t debate whether this was a good idea, or if it made him a hypocrite for the times he''d thought poorly of the junkies he''d crossed paths with. Cyrus was truly one of the flock now.


    After a few minutes of careful observation, Cyrus edged up near an ash-strewn coffee table, wiping off an area of it and dumping out a thin line of the baggie''s contents. He mimicked the others'' movements, pausing for only one brief moment before lowering himself to the table and using a rolled-up dollar bill to breathe in the powder. It burned going in, and the smell--it was like he''d just snorted acetone.


    For several minutes, nothing happened beyond the sudden loss of feeling in Cyrus''s throat. He was getting ready to call that experience a failure and get the hell out of there before something bad happened--and then something bad happened.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    It started with a sudden burst of energy. All of his concerns melted into the background, giving way to acceptance. Cyrus couldn''t remember what he had been so worried about, couldn''t recall what his true purpose was in coming there. Then all conscious thought was scattered in the haze that came over him. Whatever came next, he only saw it in red-tinted, confusing flashes. He could have sworn he heard someone screaming, but the sound only kept going on and on and growing louder in intensity until seemingly Cyrus''s eardrums shattered; abruptly, he heard nothing at all, and saw nothing at all. He drifted in that nothingness for what could have been eternity.


    As alertness slowly came back to him, Cyrus first became aware of more memories courtesy of the twisted remains of souls inside him. They all blended together in a mottled haze, rushing into each other, vying for his attention. Screaming and bodies'' worth of blood, darkness death ravaged corpses and more darkness, a thousand different horrific scenes warring for center stage in his mind.


    Then Cyrus''s main sense returned, and he became aware of how cold he was. His skin felt wet. He struggled to open his eyes, and when he did, streams of red dripped down off his lashes to splatter on the floor.


    He was surrounded by bodies, their blood spattered everywhere around the room like a twisted Jackson Pollock painting. None of the people Cyrus had seen upon first entering the house had escaped with their lives, and still clutched in one of his own hands was his knife. The blade was still slick and dripping.


    Cyrus flipped over, facing away from the carnage, struggling to purge his stomach but nothing came up. He wiped away what he thought was sweat from his forehead, and his hand came back painted bright red.


    Though his head pounded, it was completely silent, devoid of company. His bloodlust had been sated sometime during his drug trip from hell, but this brought him no joy. As Cyrus struggled to his hands and knees, he noticed an unmoving figure standing by the door, and briefly thought maybe someone had survived his attack after all.


    Then he saw the red eyes.


    Still in a haze, this was all Cyrus took note of before scrambling back in a panicked frenzy, his clumsy movements only succeeding in making him crack his head upon the coffee table. He cowered there, his only conscious thought now revolving around Acheron. The demon had come back, he had come for Cyrus, he was going to drag him back to hell--


    A stinging blow smacked Cyrus''s face and he froze. A voice, cold but unmenacing, said, "Jesus, kid! Get a hold of yourself!"


    Cyrus looked up through the blood to look at the demon again, finally realizing it was Raziel. His eyes were wide, and he was visibly shaking. Raziel muttered, "Well, here we go again. Just when you think you''re out." Then he raised his voice and said in a flat monotone, "You''re supposed to be dead."


    It took a moment for Cyrus to find his own voice. "Kill me."


    "You think I want your blood on my hands?" Raziel surveyed the room, setting his jaw. If it were even possible, he seemed to grow even paler. "You think I want this on my hands?" he repeated, nodding to the bodies.


    Cyrus risked a glance at them again, forcing himself to acknowledge what he''d done. Each one''s chest was sliced to ribbons, exposing shiny bits of bone and greyish-pink muscle. Each one still wore an open-mouthed look of agony on their blood-splattered faces.


    "Please," Cyrus begged quietly, stomach churning, tremors starting up in his hands again--this time induced by his disgust. When Raziel did not react in any way, Cyrus gritted his teeth and lifted the knife. His wet hand slipped on the handle. He still couldn''t do it himself, couldn''t use that thing on himself, even now. In an idle attempt to spur the demon''s anger, he said, "Do it before I kill you too."


    Raziel laughed humorously.


    "Maybe you''re just what I need," Cyrus continued, though each word stung on its way out. "If you''re Acheron''s opposite..."


    The demon''s jaw set and he glared down at Cyrus with a loathing he hadn''t known Raziel to even be capable of. "This is a dangerous game you''re playing, friend," he whispered in response. "What''s stopping me from simply throwing you to the wolves? You''re on the run," Raziel observed. "Someone else must be after you already."


    Maybe this would be a decent idea at this point, but Cyrus knew it was just as likely that anyone looking for him wanted to use him, not kill him.


    Then help me, Cyrus thought.


    "You think I wanna be seen running around with the world''s scariest rugrat?"


    Cyrus had a counter ready for this: if there were truly other demons in New York, it would only improve their image of Raziel if he could control the antichrist.


    "Fine, yaknow what? Here''s my first lesson: next time you want to get fucked up, don''t go with the uppers," he spat. "You bloody idiot."


    Glaring down at Cyrus, he continued, "My second lesson: I was over in Queens and I felt this massacre. That means anyone else in a couple-mile radius did too. Get the hell out of here, and fast. But I''m not going anywhere near you until you get sobered and cleaned up. I''m not your damn babysitter." Raziel gave the room one more glance-over, shaking his head and covering his mouth with one hand. He repeated bitterly, "You should be dead," before beginning to stalk out of the room.


    "Wait," Cyrus said just above a whisper, but it was enough to make the demon stop. He didn''t turn around, though. He didn''t have a cell phone of his own, and he couldn''t go strutting around the street in search of a payphone in his current state. He was sure, however, that basically everyone else in modern society would have one on them.


    Raziel said quietly, "Do you really think that''s a good idea?"


    Cyrus knew it wasn''t.


    But he was fresh out of options.


    Careful to step over the bodies, grimacing, Raziel returned to Cyrus''s spot in the corner and handed him a cell phone. He''d never used one before, but it wasn''t terribly difficult to figure out. As he dialed up the number he had memorized the night he''d last seen Tuesday, Raziel tapped his foot, each thud seeming to reverberate deep into Cyrus''s core.


    It rang once, twice, three times before the dial tone stopped short, replaced by silence. He could feel the presence on the other end of the line, though.


    Tears rolling down his face with abandon, mixing with the blood and dripping into his mouth, Cyrus said, "I need you."

 5 § Damage Control

    Tuesday was running late, again. A month didn''t seem to be enough to get back into the swing of things, not enough to fall back into a normal routine. Waking up in the morning was easy enough; she didn''t use an alarm clock any more--the sound was too jolting and would only succeed in triggering an anxiety attack--but she woke up so often throughout the night that normally she was fully awake by 5 a.m.


    On the nights her dreams got too vivid, however, she struggled to wake up on time. It was another one of those unfortunate morning-afters. The remnants of whatever memory she''d been reliving in her sleep drifted through Tuesday''s head as she rushed to get herself ready for school.


    Her Aunt Mary--who had been both estranged and excommunicated from Tuesday''s immediate family--had taken her in. Tuesday''s parents rarely spoke of her, so she had gone into her new living situation blind. Thankfully, there was nothing strange about the woman...beyond a slight case of eccentricity. One of the first things she''d said to Tuesday was an ironic remark about her own name: "My parents seemed to think naming me this would keep me on the righteous path...well they were sorely disappointed."


    Tuesday wasn''t quite sure what it was her aunt believed in that had been so alienating to the rest of the Hales, but she certainly wasn''t a Catholic. Mary was very spiritual; her house felt more like a day spa. There was a variety of candles in every imaginable space, sandalwood and various other incense could normally be found burning, and in lieu of any pets, Mary took care of plants. They lined each windowsill, always thriving--even now, with how winter was stealing each day''s allotted sunlight.


    The only actually curious thing Mary partook in was her smudging, wherein she lit a small bundle of sage and walked through the house with it. Tuesday didn''t know if it was all in her head, but the technique seemed to have a positive impact; she always felt just a little calmer, just a little more herself, when Mary did a smudging.


    Rushing to do her makeup, Tuesday nearly stabbed herself in the eye with the mascara wand. It felt like a waste of time some mornings, but she''d stopped bothering with it when everything had gone to hell...picking it back up was somewhat therapeutic. Her aunt called out from the other room; Tuesday glanced at the time on her phone and cursed, throwing her backpack over her shoulder and dashing down the hall.


    Mary had a glass of orange juice and an omelet laid out for her. Not wanting to be rude, she downed half the drink in one gulp as she struggled into her jacket. Lord, did she want to skip class--but Mary had assumed a typical parental role in her life, and she wasn''t about to allow that.


    "Good morning," Mary greeted over her own glass of orange juice. She''d seemed to be up and ready for awhile now, sitting leisurely at the table with a crossword puzzle. Tuesday couldn''t fathom how anyone could look so put-together that early in the morning. "You feeling alright?"


    Tuesday nodded, but muttered, "Why does everyone keep asking me that?" under her breath when she had turned away. Just a few days before, she''d been called down to the counselor''s office from an anonymous, concerned tip about her wellbeing. With an offer of help thrown her way, Tuesday had been very tempted to reach out and finally accept it.


    But what was she supposed to say--the truth? What a riot.


    She could have hoped she''d had enough practice putting up a facade that no one else would notice the truth. It seemed Tuesday was an open book no matter how hard she tried to be otherwise.


    School was...okay. Nothing was particularly interesting about her new Bronx public high, but then again, Tuesday had shed her pariah status. No one there either knew or cared about her past. She didn''t run in a wide circle of friends, she never had--but there were some people she shared company with when group projects or discussions arose.


    She shouldn''t be picky, Tuesday knew that. It had never gotten her anywhere before, opting to be a loner when no one else met her standards. She was a teenager, even if it was easy to forget sometimes, and no teenager felt like they fit in.


    Sure, Tuesday had never felt as connected with anyone as she had with Cyrus--but it didn''t even make sense. They were nothing alike.


    Now that he was on her mind, her day was doomed to get a lot worse. Classes trudged by in a dull blur. She spent lunch in the library, as per usual, thumbing through dusty volumes of poetry: Plath to Dickinson to Bukwoski. After that came a senior workshop, which she''d been dreading for weeks. She didn''t want to be faced with the reminder that, pretty soon, she''d need to get her act together and figure out what her future entailed.


    Tuesday filed to the gym slowly, still overwhelmed by how many kids filled the halls. Her old private school had been much smaller. An upside, though, was the diversity; the social groups were more varied and defined. She could have reinvented herself here, found good people to surround herself with--it was just so hard breaking out of that shell.


    For the first part of the assembly, Tuesday kept to herself, silently listening to the presentation on colleges and prepwork for graduation. It was hard to believe how quickly it was approaching--just several months away. Then the speaker ordered everyone to divide into groups and do a few icebreakers before discussing what they wanted to do after graduation.


    It felt like the room had suddenly gotten much smaller, all the air being sucked from it. Tuesday stared at her shoes, face heating up; then she felt a tap on her leg and saw a nearby knee was knocking into hers. Tuesday looked up to meet the eyes of the senior beside her, who was giving her a crooked grin.


    "Hey, do you wanna work with us?" the girl said, brushing her choppy dyed-black bangs out of her eyes. She jutted one finger to the other girl and boy sitting near her, the three of them sitting cross-legged facing each other on the bleachers.


    Tuesday nodded, clearing her throat, and scooted over to join them. The other kids had only welcoming smiles to offer her; a memory flashed back to her before she could ward it off of the boy from her old school bursting into flames. She couldn''t remember feeling much of anything but maybe a slight relief, or even pride, back then.


    Now it just made her sick.


    She cleared her throat again, trying to focus on the other kids. They introduced themselves, obviously for Tuesday''s benefit--they all seemed very comfortable with each other, the kind of camaraderie that came from years of slugging through the same dull assignments with each other. Tuesday was mostly quiet for the conversation; she had no honest clue what would come after school for her. The endless possibilities, good and bad, made her head spin.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    They finished with extra time and the conversation veered off track. The girl who had invited Tuesday in--Jordan--was talking animatedly about her Shakespeare class. When she paused, Tuesday took the chance to say timidly, "Do you have Mrs. K?"


    Jordan turned to her with a wide smile. "Yeah, you do too?"


    Tuesday nodded.


    "Sick! Isn''t she great?"


    "It''s my favorite class." Tuesday fell silent then, the explanation behind her answer numbing her mood. Most of the time the class revolved around each student being assigned a role and reciting from a play; Tuesday got to be someone else for an hour every day.


    When the assembly ended, Jordan grabbed her by the arm before Tuesday could disappear into the crowd. "I totally get if this is weird, but Layla and Chris and I--" she nodded to her companions-- "were going to study for that Shakespeare test. You can join us if you want."


    Tuesday hesitated for only a moment. Normal company was too good to turn down; she wanted, she desperately needed, a distraction.


    That''s how she ended up in a kinda-stranger''s house, smoking weed for the first time.


    No one forced her. It just came up, and Jordan offered, and Tuesday didn''t really see a reason to turn it down. If her father were there, he would have whipped her ass--


    --but he was probably burning in the hell he had warned countless churchgoers of.


    They never bothered to study, and quickly Layla and Chris drifted out of the room, hands all over each other. Tuesday coughed over the smoke filling her lungs, avoiding Jordan''s eyes as she began to laugh so hard, her cheeks were tinted ros¨¦. Jordan came over closer to show her how to take a proper drag, bare arm brushing against Tuesday''s. She shivered, despite the fire crackling in the hearth a couple feet away.


    As they talked, about anything and everything under the sun--favorite bands, where they would sell their soul to travel to, how democracy was a dying breed--Tuesday was finally able to get Cyrus out of her head.


    It wasn''t hard to acknowledge then, with the peacefulness sludging through her veins thanks to the weed, why she''d fallen so hard. Her life had been strict, all the boxes filled out for her; Cyrus embodied everything she couldn''t have. He was different, and it was exciting. And when she began to see he was more than meets the eye? Shit, it was like falling into a fairy-tale--in real life.


    Then came the demons. Then came the carnage. There was blood on her hands, and she wasn''t sure if she truly regretted it...but she would also do anything to scrub it from her skin, even if it meant peeling it all off.


    She felt safe with Jordan, something she''d never had with Cyrus. Sure, Tuesday was comfortable around him--somehow it just felt right--and felt content, but there was something about feeling...wanted. Not needed, not fascinated by, but genuinely wanted around.


    Jordan laughed nervously, snapping her out of her thoughts. "You''re staring," she observed, biting her lip.


    Now it was Tuesday''s turn to blush. She stared down at her shoes like the words written on them could give her some answers on whatever the hell it was she was feeling--


    And then the sound of her phone ringing made her jump.


    Giving an apologetic wince, Tuesday muttered, "Probably just spam," before glancing down and seeing a number she didn''t recognize across the screen, a local call.


    Another less violent memory came to mind: how that night on the beach she''d used the sharpie she kept on her to scribble her number on Cyrus''s hand. She hadn''t let him leave until she was absolutely positive they were in agreement--he would call her when he got his affairs in order, and he would call soon.


    Fuck. Just when she was getting him out of her head--it had to be coincidence. Still, Tuesday couldn''t help but answer the phone anyway.


    There was no greeting. In a quiet but shaking voice, Cyrus was suddenly speaking on the other end: "I need you."


    She wished she had the strength to be pissed off, but the sound of his voice only brought a surge of relief crashing over her. Tuesday stared at Jordan, wanting to stay, not wanting to ruin a good thing.


    Then she covered the speaker and said to Jordan, "I''m really sorry but I''ve gotta go," before throwing on her coat and stumbling out into the snow.


    "You still with me, Cy?" Tuesday said into the phone, bare hand shaking in the cold. She walked so fast down the sidewalk she almost tripped on the ice several times.


    She heard a quiet mumble on the other end. Unable to understand what he''d said, Tuesday tried asking the question again, but abruptly his presence was replaced by someone else. She could feel it through the phone, feel the difference in the company on the other line.


    The brisk and icy voice of the demon who had saved her life (it was about time she found out his name...) recited an address before adding, "Come quickly. Oh, and you might want to bring a spare change of clothes for your boy here." Then the line went dead.


    Tuesday stopped in her tracks, tilting her head back to stare upward at the sky. It was a deep indigo, no stars in sight but a sliver of the moon far overhead. She hadn''t realized just how much time had passed. Still sort of giddy from the weed, she took a moment to compose herself before resuming her trudge through the lightly falling snow. She made a quick stop at home, grateful that her aunt worked third shift, sifting through Mary''s closet. Cyrus was skinny, but still bigger than Tuesday--she was sure one of the woman''s shirts would fit him though. Grabbing the first acceptable shirt her fingers touched, Tuesday left again and hopped on the train to Brooklyn.


    -


    When she reached the address she''d been given, Tuesday couldn''t help but pause. She wasn''t in the greatest part of the city; actually, no part of the city was too great at that time of night. She debated turning back, staring up at the darkened house, when a figure melted from the shadows beside it and limped into view.


    She didn''t have time to revel in his company. The first thing she became aware of was how Cyrus''s face, hands and clothes were splattered red. Tuesday''s right hand went to her mouth, covering her horrified expression, the other going to her heart. It did nothing to placate her racing pulse.


    At this, Cyrus turned away, glaring at the ground. He looked ashamed, and this hit Tuesday with enough force it could have knocked her to her knees.


    She couldn''t bear to discriminate here; not so long ago, Tuesday herself had shown up on Cyrus''s doorstep in a similar state--drenched in blood, asking for help. How was she supposed to deny him the same thing? So it was without question, without comment, that she stepped forward and took his hand.


    "Let''s get you cleaned up," she whispered, not trusting her voice not to falter at full volume. She started for the house, thinking he must have just come from there, when his hand rose to settle on her arm.


    "Don''t," he said quietly.


    Looking between it and his blood-stained clothing, Tuesday couldn''t help the horror that entered her eyes again. Trying to tamp it down as quickly as possible, she said, "Well, there''s no way we can get you anywhere else looking like that. Lead the way."


    Without waiting for him to agree, Tuesday clamped one hand over her eyes and clutched one his with her other. After a moment of hesitation, Cyrus obeyed, pulling her along, whispering directions ("to the left...this way now..."). Something bitter was strong on the air, making Tuesday''s stomach church, and she did her best to ignore it. When they reached the bathroom, he ushered her inside and shut the door, and she finally opened her eyes.


    There was a stack of washclothes on the counter. Tuesday wasted no time in soaking one in warm water. Watching her, Cyrus said, "You should have let me die."


    The cloth almost dropped from her hands, her fingers spasming over it. She clutched it tighter and finally met his eyes full-on. "Don''t put this on me." She looked away again, wringing the excess water from the cloth. "But...I''m not going to make you go through it alone. What happened here?"


    He didn''t respond.


    Everything that was a mystery about him came to mind. Sure, Tuesday had begged him once not to tell him what his uncle was--but there were definitely other secrets he was keeping.  "Either tell me what happened, or I''m walking back out that fucking door without you."


    Cyrus looked up, eyes wide, staring at her for a whole minute in which she couldn''t catch her breath. Then he nodded slowly, never looking away from her face.


    And he told her everything.

 6 § Saving Grace

    Cyrus did not tell her everything.


    To explain how he''d gotten himself into that mess, he did have to backtrack a bit. This involved relaying a family-friendly summary of what Acheron had been planning and how Cyrus had made sure those plans did not come to pass. He watched Tuesday carefully as he spoke and she ran the washcloth over his bloodied skin. She did not meet his eyes, staring hard at her work as she cleaned him off.


    Cyrus couldn''t help but notice what a month away from him had done for her. Whereas before all the dark things about him hadn''t seemed to phase Tuesday, she looked on the verge of throwing up, passing out, or both. Her hands shook as they touched him; her lower lip was held permanent hostage under her teeth as she chewed on it anxiously.


    He began to say, "I told you you should have l--"


    "Shut up," Tuesday muttered back sharply, scrubbing harder at a splotch of blood under his chin. She paused, hands falling down to her sides, and glanced up at him finally. "There''s something you still aren''t telling me."


    Well, there were probably several somethings, so Cyrus remained quiet and waited for her to inform him just which one she was referring to.


    She cleared her throat, turning to the sink and wringing the cloth out under the tap. The water ran red down the drain. "I saw on the news..."


    It hung there between them, and Cyrus was unsure how to take it--as an accusation? He knew this would come up, inevitably; the media''s coverage of Second Advent''s downfall had mentioned just where they had been found. Coincidences didn''t exist in Cyrus''s world, and Tuesday wasn''t stupid; it couldn''t be hard to connect the dots between a bloodthirsty kid, a demon with a penchant for manipulation, and a group of faith-bound hostages.


    He didn''t know what to say, but a response wasn''t necessary. Tuesday had begun speaking again. "I don''t know what your uncle was doing with all those people, and I dunno if I want to." She turned to him again, eyes shining with tears that refused to spill. "Should I want to?"


    Cyrus''s shoulders slumped under the relief that came then. He didn''t want to burden her. No, he didn''t want to scare her away--that was the truth, because this truth very well may prove to be the last straw. Tuesday had wanted him to stop hurting innocent people, and Cyrus had gone ahead and done it anyway...all to earn the approval of a cold and twisted dictator.


    He shook his head, and that was that. Tuesday nodded softly, dropping the bloodied cloth on the counter and shoving a balled-up article of clothing his way. Cyrus took it gingerly.


    A faint blush creeping into her cheeks, Tuesday turned to face away from him. Her posture slumped, as if she could curl in on herself and disappear. She remained silent as Cyrus stripped off his stained shirt and replaced it with the new one, a crisp, long-sleeved flannel and fit snugly but not uncomfortably. Thinking it must be hers had a similar blush appear on his own face, though he couldn''t fathom why. He cleared his throat when he was clothed.


    Tuesday appraised him with emotionless eyes, and Cyrus looked over himself as well. His own jeans were black and if he hadn''t been looking for the bloodstains, he wouldn''t have noticed the very faint impressions they made on the equally dark fabric. All traces of the carnage had been wiped from his skin. Some of his hair was matted together, but it was as black as his pants and revealed no blood there either.


    "You look like you could use a shower," Tuesday remarked. "And when''s the last time you''ve slept in a bed?"


    Cyrus shrugged, fiddling with the sleeves of his new shirt.


    She sighed sharply, folding her arms tight across her chest. "Why didn''t you ever reach out?"


    "Was trying to protect you," Cyrus mumbled, not wanting to touch over the whole filled-with-dark-souls thing again.


    "And you never thought to pick up the phone and tell me that?"


    Cyrus met her gaze with raised eyebrows. Tuesday seemed to understand the meaning there: I just did. She laughed lowly under her breath, uncrossing her arms to wring her hands together. "My aunt isn''t home. You could come back with me, get some rest..."


    Cyrus''s first response came quick and hard. "No." Met by the hurt in her eyes, how a single tear finally spilled over to trace a jagged path down her face, he added, "I can''t...let my guard down around you."


    "When is this ever going to end?" Tuesday whispered. When he had no response for that, she snapped, "Are you seriously telling me you don''t have a plan? You''re content to keep slumming it on the streets, fingers crossed another massacre doesn''t happen?"This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Cyrus leaned away from the poison dripping from her tone, clenching his fists. They had begun to shake, but this wasn''t from his urges. No, those were still blissfully quiet. Being able to look at someone without wanting to wring the life from them took some stress off his shoulders but inevitably weighed him down more in the process. She was right. He was destined to screw up again.


    "You''re coming with me," Tuesday said flatly. "That isn''t a request."


    He couldn''t help but laugh, despite everything. It was nice seeing a little of her old self peering through the cracks of the person standing beside him now.


    "Because, you see," she continued, expression blank. "That''s how a friendship works, Cyrus. You don''t get to call me up when everything goes wrong but totally ignore me the rest of the time. Maybe I need you too."


    Cyrus nodded when words failed him. His attention was pulled to the bloody shirt still in his hand. What the hell was he supposed to do with it, with the chaos in the living room? He didn''t have a demon to clean up his mess this time; he didn''t know what he could do with half a dozen bodies. They would be found, sooner or later, though Cyrus wasn''t sure what would happen after that. How could his crime be traced back to him? He''d been living off the grid for so long...


    Maybe it would be attributed to that serial killer theory he''d seen on the news, even if it didn''t fit the original pattern. People evolved, right? Carnage on this scale was possible from one human being, right?


    It still didn''t sit right with Cyrus. Another idea came to him, one that would hopefully do away with any evidence he could have left behind and mask some of the destruction he''d caused upon the bodies in the other room. But it had a cost. Everything worthwhile always did.


    Even if Tuesday just so happened to have a lighter on her, they had no accelerant; there was no natural way to set the place ablaze quickly enough. Cyrus didn''t want to tap into his energy reserve, didn''t want to tempt his demons into returning too soon, but he couldn''t leave the place in its current state.


    He couldn''t risk debating it any longer; there was a target on his head--Raziel had emphasized the need for haste. Cyrus led Tuesday outside again, her eyes covered; he hesitated in the threshold of the back door.


    "What?"


    Cyrus took a deep breath. The frosty air stung going in. "I...need a minute."


    She narrowed her eyes, not moving from her spot several feet away. "Uh-huh. Go ahead, I''ll stay right here."


    Sighing, biting back the retorts that leapt to his tongue, Cyrus turned back into the house. He gave the scene one last look--the sight of it sinking in his gut, twisting a burning hand around his heart and suckerpunching his stomach--before letting go of all his remorse. There was nothing he could do to change the past. He could only try to be better.


    A spark lit into existence, and that spark fed into a raging fire that crawled along the thick shag carpet and licked up the curtains. It spread across the room in seconds, devouring everything in its path in a haze of furious red and orange. When the heat raged forward to exhale its smoke over Cyrus''s face, he slammed the door shut and stumbled down the porch.


    These things seemed to take no effort to do anymore; it was like everything that happened with Acheron had broken the one thing keeping him from his full potential, and with the dam burst, everything came flooding out. It always took its toll on Cyrus''s health, however, and he wasn''t eager to face what would come for him. He ignored the open-mouthed look of shock on Tuesday''s face and began walking, shifting his gaze in all directions, searching the shadows.


    If he didn''t know better, he could have sworn he felt the presence of another person--or thing--tangible on the air. The hair rose on the back of his neck and arms; a shiver wracked his spine. He did know better, though...if there were anyone out there, they had a clear shot at Cyrus. He was still a shaky, panicky mess, and now he had a companion''s safety to worry about. Nothing came for them. It was just paranoia, Cyrus reassured himself. No one was out there after all.


    They didn''t speak again. Upon reaching Tuesday''s new house, she quickly and silently showed him to her room and shoved a stack of towels into his arms. Taking the hint, Cyrus showered, revelling in the steady pressure of warm water against his back but knowing he couldn''t hide in there forever. When he emerged from the bathroom, Tuesday was sitting at the desk pushed to one side of her bedroom, staring at nothing. She didn''t look up at his entrance, but jabbed a finger in the direction of her bed. "Sleep. I''ll wake you up before my aunt gets back."


    It was hard to refuse the offer. He was out cold as soon as his head hit the pillows, but had a rather rude awakening. Cyrus was in a constant state of unease, and normally slept pretty lightly; he must have felt the new presence in the room, because when he struggled to open his eyes he was greeted by the sight of Tuesday''s aunt. She was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes cold and narrow. Cyrus glanced back to the desk to see Tuesday had passed out, hunched over the desk.


    "I''m going to ask this once, and it''s in your best interest to answer very carefully. What are you," the woman said calmly, "and why are you wearing my clothes?"


    The way she was looking at him knocked the air from Cyrus''s lungs and he couldn''t form a response. Her stare was so focused and hard, it felt like she was staring straight into his soul--unfortunate choice of words and all. Perhaps strangest of all, he couldn''t read what he was feeling from her at all--it wasn''t dark, like Pastor Hale or Acheron, and it wasn''t light, like the woman''s niece. There was some grey area at play there. Before Cyrus could put much more thought to it, Tuesday stirred.


    She lifted her head from the desk, then saw her aunt and blanched. She started to talk, words clashing together into an incomprehensible tangle, but the other woman held up a hand, never taking her eyes off Cyrus.


    "This boy is just oozing bad karma. Get him out of here or I will."


    Cyrus didn''t need to hear that twice. He scrambled up from the bed and edged past the woman, who regarded him with that same spine-tingling stare. Tuesday watched him go with wide eyes, but she didn''t seem to know what to say either.


    Seconds after his feet left the porch, the front door slammed behind him, and Cyrus was once again alone.

 7 § On a Bender

    Seeing Tuesday again had calmed the monster in him for the briefest of moments; back out in the cold, and having drained his energy in such a reckless way, quickly had darkness crawling back out of whatever recesses it had retreated to.


    Cyrus distracted himself for the first half of the day obsessing over Tuesday''s aunt. She was human, Cyrus was sure; he''d been in the company of demons and reapers, and those creatures had a much more oppressive energy about them. But her intuition, or whatever it was, had doubt creeping along his spine. What did he know? The world was looking to be increasingly complex with each passing day. It wasn''t far-fetched to assume there were beings Cyrus was not yet aware of out there.


    When he had no other suspicions to toss around, the awareness of his demons came rushing back. It wasn''t bad, not yet. He''d been dealing with it for a very long time and this was nothing new. However, the little drug-induced massacre was no on Cyrus''s mind, and the idea of anything like that happening again had him shaking even harder. He didn''t want to test his limits. That''s how he ended up outside a liquor store, offering nearly the last of his cash--only a few twenties were left in the wallet--to anyone willing to score him some liquid amnesia.


    After just half an hour of begging, someone grabbed the cash from Cyrus''s hand and entered the store. Hoping they wouldn''t decide to use it all on themself, he turned to the bar next door; the large flatscreen was visible through the window. From his spot on the sidewalk, he could just make out the image of a house on fire, thick plumes of smoke reaching blackish fingers towards the sky. Cyrus couldn''t read the reporter''s lips, but saw the bold caption: SIX DEAD IN POSSIBLE ELECTRICAL FIRE.


    Cyrus turned from the window, stomach churning.


    The man who''d taken his money exited the shop then, glancing up and down the street before thrusting a paper sack into Cyrus''s hands and hurrying away. That had been easier than expected; oh to live in a land flowing with milk and honey...


    This thought brought a half-delirious laugh to Cyrus''s lips as he found a deserted alleyway to hide him from the street and huddled down there. It was an era of firsts, but each one made the next come easier. He twisted the top off the bottle without hesitation.


    He sputtered over the first sip. By the time the bottle was nearly bone-dry, his throat welcomed it without protest. When it was gone, Cyrus''s thoughts had grown sluggish but it hadn''t completely numbed the memories forcing their way through the fog. In movements that felt slow and awkward, he flung the bottle away from himself. It crashed into the opposite wall several feet away, shards of glass raining down.


    Cyrus''s eyes strayed to a particularly large shard, the neck of the bottle still intact, tapering off into sharp little teeth. The sight of it needled him until its significance came to light. It reminded him of the weapon Tuesday had used to kill Pastor Hale.


    And it reminded him of something else. Knowing he wouldn''t like the truth that was struggling to unveil itself in the haze of his mind, Cyrus thumped his head with his hands and attempted to think of anything else.


    He did not have that luxury. The memory was faded and warped and barely there at all; he couldn''t picture it, but a label of its events branded itself into Cyrus''s thoughts: that was how he had killed his mother. All it had taken was a small suggestion and a jagged piece of glass.


    A sob wracked his body with such force Cyrus had no choice but to curl in on himself in an attempt to keep himself together. He hadn''t cried before or after that night on the beach, and it wasn''t a pleasant feeling.


    He couldn''t bear being alone with himself much longer, but it would be unwise to attempt revisiting Tuesday''s house if that aunt of hers were home--and besides, Cyrus couldn''t explain what he was feeling. Not to her. This was yet another secret he wasn''t ready to share.


    Seeing no other options, and mind still a cluttered whiskey-scented mess, he concentrated on Raziel. It went from a general thought to a request to downright begging; Cyrus had surely leapt off the deep-end. Face-down in the asphalt, he mumbled into it, "Is this thing on?" He remained alone for several more minutes before a voice, twisted in repulse, replied.


    "Are you drunk?"


    Cyrus''s enusing groan was muffled by the ground.


    "Well," Raziel remarked. "I guess you sorta took my advice. And went against it at the same time; I said I wanted you sober."


    Cyrus lifted his face, though he was uneager to face the demon. Keeping his eyes on the ground, he shrugged one shoulder, trying to explain in his thoughts why it had seemed like a halfway decent idea.


    "You''ll never curb your demon like this."


    Anger rose through the haze then, hot and quick. Looking up finally through narrowed eyes, Cyrus spat, "Then help me."


    No emotion revealed itself in Raziel''s expression. He stared at Cyrus blankly before rubbing a weary hand across his forehead. "I suppose anything''s better than having you free to roam the streets." The once careful mask hardened then, twisting Raziel''s lips down. "Here''s the deal, short straw: you listen to me, you mind me, and don''t you dare bitch about it. You want my help? Fine, but don''t forget you''re in my debt."


    Cyrus didn''t dare to voice his next thoughts, couldn''t even think the name--but still, the image of Acheron dying came to mind. This was followed by some of Cyrus''s first interactions with Raziel and the latter''s speech about favors he would come to collect. Cyrus could have bet Acheron''s death and foiled plans were precisely the favor Raziel would have been referring to.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The paleness of Raziel''s skin was chased by a sudden rush of red that made the color of his eyes burn even hotter. "You think that''s what I wanted?"


    His hands were suddenly fisted in Cyrus''s shirt, lifting him a few inches off the ground to stare into Raziel''s eyes, inches away.


    His anger washed over Cyrus and stirred the darkness inside him. He winced and struggled to back away but Raziel kept a tight grip on him, breaths ragged, eyes crazed. Then the demon loosened his hands, shook out his fists and curled his lip. Quietly he said, "You know nothing," before rising again.


    His words weren''t aligning with Cyrus''s memories, who couldn''t help but recall how easily Raziel had put a knife to Acheron''s throat and threatened his life. With a dry chuckle, Raziel shook his head slowly. "There''s a difference between want and need. It had to be done," he conceded. "But I did not want any of this. Any of it."


    "But what does that mean--"


    "Not," Raziel hissed between clenched teeth, raising a hand in warning, "now." He pinched the bridge of his nose, hair flopping down in his eyes and masking whatever emotions might have been playing there. After a very tense moment, he brushed it away and glanced back down to Cyrus. "I''ll have you know, I was having a very good time before you had to go and rudely interrupt."


    Could have ignored me, Cyrus thought.


    "Easier said than done, with your whining voice in my head. Sorta kills the mood," Raziel retorted. He sighed heavily, rubbing his face again before saying, "Well, as I said, better to have you off the streets."


    Pulling a knife from the waistband of his jeans, Raziel opened a small cut on his upper arm. Cyrus watched with nausea slowly growing more intense. His head was spinning and the last thing he needed was to make himself even more dizzy; his last time travelling by a demon''s methods was less than graceful.


    "Suck it up," Raziel muttered, grabbing Cyrus''s arm.


    Doing anything to stall the moment, he piped up, "I thought you need to do this where something, uh, bad happened."


    With amusement softening his eyes, Raziel said, "It''s a dark and scary world we live in, pal, there''s hardly a place untouched by misery in some form or another." Seeing the memories of Cyrus''s first travel, how his mentor had made a fuss about using the area James Crocker had died, Raziel added, "Acheron had a flair for the dramatic." His voice grew more bitter on that last line, and he cut off immediately with yet another sigh. "Ready?"


    He did not wait for a response. Cyrus had just enough time to squeeze his eyes shut before the world melted and gave way to darkness. The sensation of falling had him tense and sickened; then he felt his shoulders pressing into something hard and forced himself to look.


    He was splayed out across sterling-colored vinyl flooring. In his line of sight, a black wing-toed shoe tapped impatiently. Pressing one hand against the pulsing ache that started in his temples, Cyrus struggled to a sitting position.


    "That was kinda pathetic to watch," Raziel murmured. "Like a cat falling from a tree."


    Ignoring him, Cyrus took in his surroundings. To his immense surprise, they were in a mundane-looking living room. Well, it was more than mundane--about as high class of a place Cyrus had ever seen. It was chic and modern, all glass and steel and mellow black-and-white color scheme. For the most part, it was a wide-open space, though an electric fireplace that resembled a television screen flickered with a live flame on one wall. To the right, nearly the entire wall was dominated by a bank of windows overlooking the city opening out onto a balcony. To the left was an apparent kitchen, a tall island with transparent swivelling bar stools parked alongside it blocking most of Cyrus''s view.


    "What''d you expect, a dungeon?"


    Before Cyrus could respond, a new figure strutted into view and he couldn''t help his first instinctual reaction: to cower away. The newcomer appraised him with amusement in her red eyes.


    "Well, hello there," she purred, siddling alongside Raziel and draping an arm around him. "You must be Cyrus. I''ve heard so much about you."


    If he couldn''t see her true form or feel her presence--similar to that of Raziel''s--Cyrus would not know what she truly was. The woman couldn''t have been anything older than her mid-twenties, with soft features and a build nearly as slender as Cyrus''s. Past her true scarlet eyes, the human ones were doe-like and devoid of malice. Despite this, Cyrus couldn''t tamp down his paranoia; he had gotten used to being open and didn''t have enough time to block his thoughts.


    "Oh, honey," the woman murmured, cocking her head. "Just consider me Switzerland. I''m a lover, not a fighter," she said with a smile creeping onto her red-painted lips. To emphasize her point, she turned her face into the crook of Raziel''s neck, tracing a path up it with the tip of her nose before stopping at his ear and tugging on it gently with her teeth.


    Raziel cleared his throat, face blushing scarlet, and he coughed into one fist. "Yes, well, ah. Do you think you could give us a minute, Vay?"


    "Sure thing, handsome," she replied, a wicked grin still in place. Then she turned and strolled lithely from the room.


    Cyrus raised one sharp eyebrow.


    "Nevaeh is, ah--well, your impression that every single demon out there wants your head on a silver platter is a tad misguided. Not all of us want a war and not all of us want to put the antichrist on a leash."


    Cyrus bit back anger at the slight and tried to tamp down his shock. Still, it was a lot to take in, just the idea of another friendly demon alone. Even harder to comprehend was just how friendly this one was, with Raziel at least--


    "Anyhow," Raziel said forcefully, clapping his hands together. "You''re in for a wicked hangover, kid. Why don''t you go nurse it." He took Cyrus by the elbow, helping him up from the floor, and led him down the hall. There were four doors in total; Raziel shoved him through the first one on the right.


    It was a small bedroom, though bigger than Cyrus''s old one; a bed was made up with pristine white sheets that looked to be fresh out of their packaging. Besides a tiny oak nightstand with a glass lamp, the room was bare.


    "We don''t have many guests, you''re in luck," Raziel said, pushing Cyrus towards the bed before inching back towards the door. "Sleep it off and we can talk in the morning."


    Before he could disappear, Cyrus said, a thousand questions still whirling through his mind, "For someone who''s adamant against being my babysitter...you sure are being helpful."


    Raziel snorted. "Yeah, well, if this baby throws a tantrum the whole fucking world ends."


    It wasn''t a satisfying answer. Cyrus crossed his arms, wondering why the demon really cared. Sure, getting Cyrus off the streets was good news for New York''s general populace but why did Raziel take that task upon himself?


    "Anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?" Raziel muttered, scratching his neck, but his resolve seemed to cave because he kept talking. "Eh, yaknow what? Keeping secrets from you didn''t do the last guy any good. You wanna know why I''m so invested?"


    Raziel took one more step back into the room, shadows dancing across his face and the fire stoking in his eyes. He almost appeared...sad. The only time Cyrus had ever seen such mourning, such apparent sorrow, on the demon''s face was when Raziel had found him in Central Park with a new kill.


    "I''m part of the reason you exist, kid."

 8 § Going Nowhere Fast

    Aunt Mary''s lecture was brief, but direct: she wouldn''t ask what kind of mess Tuesday was caught up in as long as she stayed away from the boy Mary found in her bed.


    It was fair enough. Tuesday could live with that commandment; there was no way Mary would know she broke it, as long as she worked on her lying skills. Oh, and never fell asleep on the watch like an idiot.


    With the new rule laid out, Mary had gone straight to bed, leaving Tuesday alone to prep herself for school. She couldn''t keep her hands from shaking, and decided to forego makeup for the day. She couldn''t get her aunt''s reaction to Cyrus out of her head. On the one hand, not many people took a liking to him, so it wasn''t all that surprising; on the other, it was like she could sense something was off about him.


    It was still engrained in Tuesday to immediately push suspicions like those out of sight, out of mind. Under her Christian teachings, she''d been raised to regard anything unearthly, as long as God was not concerned, as false. Back then, she hadn''t known just how big the universe was, though. Maybe some people were extra sensitive to the strange and unusual; maybe Mary was one of those people.


    Whatever was going on there wasn''t Tuesday''s greatest concern. As she slung her backpack over one shoulder and started out for school, every part of her begged to go in the other direction. She had no clue where Cyrus had gone, but if she didn''t have Mary''s wrath to worry about, she''d tear New York apart looking for him.


    She just got him back. Why did that have to end so soon?


    It was easier to focus on how much she missed Cyrus than the things he''d done. No, those things she carefully filed away for later. Life was complicated enough. What wasn''t so easy to push aside, however, were the other stories he''d told Tuesday. Specifically, the ones about Acheron.


    How close she''d brushed with death that seemingly innocent morning in Cyrus''s kitchen--Lord, how was she supposed to cope with that? How was she supposed to take in the information that a, well, a thing she couldn''t really bring herself to name, had wanted to kill basically everyone on the planet?


    And to learn Cyrus had killed him--well, that definitely came as a shock. He''d always seemed so attached, so dutiful.


    It seemed the general consensus was wrong...people really could change.


    The first part of Tuesday''s day was uneventful. The classes dragged, and even Shakespeare couldn''t lift her spirits. She stammered and stumbled over her lines until the teacher took pity on her and reassigned her role, letting the student beside Tuesday take a turn at being Lady Macbeth.


    If she was being honest with herself, the scene had hit a little too close to home; that''s what had made it so hard to read. Somewhere during her recitation, her mind wandered from the fictional scene and drifted to real life memories that would best remain in the past.


    By the time lunch rolled around, Tuesday was beginning to think she could benefit from another trip down marijuana alley; she figured with how weird she was being, though, that she wouldn''t get another chance to hang with Jordan and the others. In case she was wrong, Tuesday skipped her normal appointment in the library to brave the cafeteria.


    Talk about sensory overload. About twice as many kids as there were seats were crammed into the space, the sounds of their chatting and jesting rising to a thundering cacophony. Gripping one strap of her bag tightly, she gritted her teeth and forced her way through the crowd. There were no empty spaces and no familiar faces; she was just about to turn back and make a mad dash for the library when she heard her name called over the din.


    A few feet away, Jordan was rising from a bench, a bright smile splitting across her face. She motioned Tuesday over, lightly pushing Layla down the bench to make room. Across the table sat Chris and a few other kids she didn''t recognize.


    "Hey man, how you doing?" Jordan asked, having to raise her voice to be heard over the lunchroom chaos.


    Tuesday gave some plastic response and fell into the group''s casual banter, even finding herself laughing--and genuinely. For fifteen minutes things went smoothly. She was welcomed easily into the other kids'' already established ranks. As it turned out, Jordan was sort of new to the school as well, having just moved to the city a year before. Switching schools senior year was a drastic change they both had in common, and quickly they broke off from the main group and delved into their own discussion.


    That is, until Tuesday heard Chris talking about the house fire.


    "I don''t care what the police say, man," he was saying to the kid beside him. "I knew one of the guys, he was into some whack shit. I wouldn''t be surprised if he owed the wrong kinda someone a bunch of money and they came to collect."Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Pure speculation and the whims and rumors of teenagers certainly shouldn''t hold any weight, but of course Tuesday knew the truth herself. She''d avoided watching the news that morning for a specific purpose and had hoped something like that happening over in Brooklyn wouldn''t be interesting enough to hold anyone''s attention there...but maybe she had been hoping for too much. This wasn''t a normal house fire. She would have thought that if she hadn''t seen it for herself--the strangeness of the incident was emphasized by Chris''s next words.


    "Six of ''em died, all burned to hell and beyond recognition. Can you believe that?"


    "If you''re right and they were all fucked up, it makes total sense they were too blitzed to make it out of there, dude," another kid argued.


    Tuesday shot up from the bench, one hand clutching her stomach like it could contain the nausea. She heard Jordan call her name but ignored her, nearly unable to reach the bathroom quick enough.


    Half of the stalls were occupied and a few more girls were crowding the counter, touching up their makeup. Tuesday brushed past them, locking herself in an empty stall and reaching the toilet just in time to purge her lunch. She sat shaking, too out of her mind to contemplate how gross it was that she was now resting her face against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat.


    Fuck. That''s all she could think. Fuck.


    Who was she kidding, when she had told Cyrus they could be normal, that they could be human? It wasn''t possible any longer. It wouldn''t be right.


    A soft knock rapped on her stall. Tuesday saw the tips of Jordan''s black sneakers from under the gap in the door. "Hey, girl, you alright in there?"


    She wanted to lie; she wanted to stay locked in that stall until lunch ended and everyone went off to their respective classes. Instead, Tuesday unlatched the door with trembling fingers and let it swing open enough to reveal the tears streaming down her face. Thank God she hadn''t worn makeup.


    Jordan winced, then turned to the girls who were still primping themselves in front of the mirror. "Yo, ladies, think you could give us some privacy?"


    They met her eyes in the mirror with various pouts, but something in Jordan''s expression must have made them rethink their decision. Muttering to themselves, the girls packed up their things and left.


    Jordan sighed and turned back to Tuesday, looking her over for a moment before sliding down to the ground beside her. That one gesture almost made the tears flow again; the floor was probably teeming with ten different diseases, but here this girl was. A nice, normal girl...everything Tuesday wished she could be.


    Back in the cafeteria, Jordan had seemed upbeat and energetic. Here, the smile was gone, replaced by a sad grimace. Jordan played with her bangs, brushing them out of her eyes and twisting a few locks around her finger, for a few silent minutes. Then she said, "I know you don''t know me all that well yet, but if you want to talk...I''ll listen." She paused, biting her lip, then added, "I know how hard it can be to keep it all in. Word of advice: don''t."


    Tuesday wiped the tears from her face, staring down at her hands and twisting them together. "I appreciate that, really, but..."


    "I wouldn''t understand?"


    When Tuesday met the other girl''s eyes, she saw amusement in them.


    "Yeah, man," Jordan continued. "I get that. Nothing I haven''t said before myself. But I think the truth is, we''re always a little less complicated than we''d like to believe. I bet whatever''s wrong, I can at least emphasize."


    Tuesday stifled a laugh, covering her mouth with a wet hand. Another memory struggled to get her attention, one so old she was surprised to even remember. She could somewhat recall sometime in early elementary school, before Cyrus had been taken out of school, and all her efforts to get him to speak. No one had ever heard him do it before, but no one ever seemed to try. Tuesday had been the only one brave enough to sit beside him at lunch or on the bench at recess when everyone else was playing. Eventually, she''d gotten a few one-word responses from him--and each yes or no was a little victory.


    Funny how easy it was, in contrast, to talk to Jordan. Tuesday didn''t have to wonder what she was thinking or practically beg for an answer. It was just--easy.


    Sighing, she said quietly, "I don''t know how to explain it. I''ve just had a rough--" an unexpected sob interrupted the thought, and she choked over it. "--a rough couple months."


    A consoling hand appeared on her back and rubbed slow circles there. Tuesday hadn''t even let Aunt Mary really touch her, and at first the contact made her flinch. She relaxed into it after a moment, thinking it was about time she let someone take care of her.


    "I feel you," Jordan finally responded. "Lately it feels like I''m going nowhere fast." They fell silent for several minutes until Jordan spoke up again. "Hey, who was that on the phone last night?"


    "Oh, that...that was just a friend. He, uh, needed some help."


    "Mhmm." That''s all Jordan said, and she retracted her hand, picking at her nails.


    "What?"


    "Nothing. I mean--" Jordan glanced up, eyes uncertain, biting her lip. "I don''t know. It''s just, I''ve been the third wheel to two lovebirds long enough to know the difference between friends and, you know, something more."


    Tuesday leaned back, not sure how to take that. She looked away, rubbing a finger along the soles of her shoes.


    "If I''m crossing a line, tell me to fuck off," Jordan said quickly, voice raising an octave. "It''s just, I saw how you looked when you answered the phone. But now you''re--" she waved a hand towards Tuesday. "Well, girl, it probably isn''t my place to tell you, but I have a feeling whoever he is, he isn''t good for you."


    Tuesday rose stiffly, shaking the cramps from her limbs, which had gone numb. She paced over to the sink and splashed cold water over her face, not looking up to the mirror where she felt Jordan''s eyes on her.


    "Right," Jordan muttered. "Definitely not my place. Sorry to, you know, bother you." She walked to the restroom door, pausing there with it half-open. "Maybe we could start over. I''ll keep my stupid mouth shut and maybe we could watch a movie or something after school. You game?"


    Even though she wanted to be angry, a small smile crept over Tuesday''s lips and betrayed her. "I''m game," she relented.

 9 § Etiology

    Insisting he wouldn''t be in the proper state for explanations until he slept and had a stiff drink in his hand (in that order), Raziel had told Cyrus once more they could talk more after they both got some rest. Naturally, it was a fitful rest for Cyrus. The next morning took its sweet time coming, leaving him to toss and turn and stare at the ceiling until brief moments of sleep took him under. In some of those rests, he dreamt of vague memories stemming from the ancient darkness inside him; during others, he once again saw Tuesday with those disturbing eyes.


    When the first rays of light crept through the bedroom window, Cyrus couldn''t wait any longer. He rose from the bed, padding quietly to the door and inching it open. The hall was quiet, empty. Placing each step with care, he made his way to the living area and took another few moments to revel in it again. It was still hard to come to terms with the idea of Raziel living the good life in some--what, penthouse?


    Behind him, the door furthest down the hall creaked open and shut quietly. Raziel had emerged from his own room, eyes still half-shut and a hard grimace etched onto his face. He grumbled something unintelligible, which Cyrus took as his cue to not bother him just yet.


    Raziel crossed the room and into the kitchen, fiddling with an automatic coffee machine on the counter. When he silently held up a mug in offering, Cyrus declined, the thought of Acheron''s own penchant for the stuff now on his mind. He sank onto one of the bar stools, cradling his head in his hands.


    When Raziel had made himself a cup and drained it dry, he finally spoke, though his voice was still a bit gravelly. "Well, here we go, I guess. Time to bare my sins." Laughing coldly, he reached under the bar, producing a metallic flask and pouring some of its contents into his mug. He filled it the rest of the way up with another serving of coffee before turning to Cyrus.


    "Where to start..." he muttered, stirring a finger in his drink absently. He lifted it to his mouth, licking it clean, and sighed. "We were like brothers once."


    Raziel glanced up at the confusion evident on Cyrus''s face, and elaborated, deadpan, "Acheron and I, if you can believe that."


    Cyrus couldn''t. The two were much too different and had such obvious bitterness for each other. Although, a contradiction began to poke at him--Tuesday and Cyrus were each other''s opposites, at least at one point in time, too. Look where that got them: thick as thieves.


    But, Acheron had obviously been content to be the top dog. In what reality would he want to hang around another demon?


    "Large numbers of us can''t live together long," Raziel responded, voice still flat. "There''s few enough of our kind to spread out, but total solitude doesn''t work for humans and it doesn''t work for us." He nodded down the hall to his bedroom, where Cyrus could only assume his female companion was.


    The thought still gave him the creeps. Suppressing a shudder, he tried to tamp down those remarks and allow Raziel to continue.


    "Eternity is lonely. Can''t remember who even came first, but for a long time, Ach and I ran in the same circles. That is, until he decided to settle down amongst the humans."Stolen novel; please report.


    Meeting Cyrus''s open-mouthed look of disbelief, Raziel gave a wry smile. "Humanity...is a far greater siren than the one you''re familiar with. All of us fall under its spell at least once. And for him, it really was just once."


    He swallowed hard, beginning to tap his fingers aggressively against the island. His eyes went unfocused, the fire in them


    doused, no longer smouldering.


    "The Salem trials had long come to pass but that scar had not yet scabbed over, the paranoia hadn''t died. Acheron sired a child with a human, and the others noticed there was something off about it. Oh, don''t get too excited, hybrids have nothing on you--but they''re still dark, devoid of a conscience. I believe people nowadays refer to them as sociopaths.


    "Anyways, the village noticed, and they drove Acheron out...but not before burning the child and its mother alive. The church condemned him of witchcraft and he didn''t return to New York for many decades. What better place to build an empire than in the city that never sleeps," Raziel muttered.


    "That''s when he came back to me," Raziel continued, voice hovering just over a whisper. "And asked me to help him burn humanity to the ground."


    Cyrus had done his best to keep his thoughts to himself up until that point, but then the wall in his mind flooded. He had the creeping suspicion the same hatred of humanity that had clouded Acheron''s mind passed on to Raziel.


    Laughing quietly, Raziel produced a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. "Of course they''ve disappointed me, too," he said around the cigarette, "but the trick is to not set your expectations too high."


    He blew out a long drag, the smoke hanging in the air between them. Cyrus stifled a cough, not wanting to disturb the moment, not when someone was finally being open with him.


    Sighing, Raziel continued with his speech.


    "I guess he wanted to make sure he never lost his power like he did that day, and to do that he''d need something far stronger than himself or any hybrid. But all energy has to come from somewhere, and Ach was dead-set on hunting down our brothers and sacrificing them for his cause.


    "And I helped," Raziel said blankly, looking up to meet Cyrus''s eyes with completely emotionless ones of his own. "I helped him slaughter dozens of us so he wouldn''t kill me too. I lured them to him, much like your girl did for you..."


    At that, Cyrus was briefly drawn out from the story. The parallel bothered him, brushing cold fingers down his spine. What if Tuesday had only helped him because she, like Raziel, had been afraid?


    Raziel didn''t let him continue to ponder this.


    "What goes around--" he began to say, then trailed off, mouth hardening into a thin line. "Well. Killing each other, that is a very taboo act. Bad karma surely marked Acheron for the crimes he committed and what goes around surely comes back. But he thought if he could play God, he could live above the rules."


    Crossing his arms, Raziel said coldly, "I do not live under those same pretenses. I''m damned, that''s for sure. But I thought that maybe, if I could keep you from destroying the goddamned world--well, maybe that would be enough to balance the scales."


    He leaned forward, holding Cyrus''s gaze even when the latter wanted to wilt under the intensity of that stare.


    "I''m old, kid," he whispered. "I''m tired. But I want to get something right for a change. What do you say we help each other do that, hmm?"


    Chest tight, head spinning, all Cyrus could do was nod.


    Raziel shoved back from the island, facing away, and moved on to his second cigarette. After a heavy moment, he said under his breath, "I need to get some air," before making for the balcony and shutting the door between them.


    Cyrus watched him for some time, unable to make sense of the chaos in his own head, before deciding it would be best to leave the demon be for now. He returned to the guest bedroom, curling into a ball on the bed and hugging his knees to his chest tightly.


    It would be a long day.

 10 § A Throne to Fill

    Raziel stayed outside long enough that when Nevaeh emerged from their bedroom, Cyrus was still alone and had come back out to sit at the island again. His mind had been a clusterfuck, replaying that morning''s conversation; as soon as the woman came out, though, Cyrus was focused on the present once more.


    He was careful to conceal what he was thinking this time, how he didn''t particularly enjoy the confidence exuding from every fluid movement as Nevaeh strutted down the hall. In a very gruesome thought, he realized she was basically the female version of Raziel. It was unsettling, to say the least.


    "Well, hello again," she greeted brightly, and Cyrus couldn''t help but stare. She''d ditched the casual clothing he met her in and traded that in for a blue collared shirt, a nametag pinned over her heart. Nevaeh followed his gaze and laughed, the sound light and seemingly genuine, but something about it all refused to rub Cyrus right.


    "How did you think we afford this place?" Nevaeh asked, gesturing to the room. "Demons gotta work too."


    Acheron hadn''t. Then again, he probably stole all the money he could ever need. Cyrus couldn''t quite meet her eyes, but didn''t want to clue her in on what he was feeling. He fumbled for the words for a moment before inquiring quietly, "And Raziel...?"


    "Oh, he tends bar at a restaurant uptown a few nights a week."


    Yet another image Cyrus couldn''t quite picture, although at the same time it didn''t exactly surprise him. Raziel was nothing if not charismatic, in the way best suited for slaving away to other people''s whims in order to win them over and hustle some tips.


    "Of course, he isn''t exactly the breadwinner," Nevaeh continued, flashing a perfect set of gleaming teeth. "But answering a prayer here and there, well...grateful people seem to be eager to empty their pockets."


    She gave him one last smile, eyes tracing up and down Cyrus''s body before finally turning away and leaving. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself.


    The balcony door slid open then, letting in a gust of chilly air. Raziel stalked inside, pausing at the intersection of the hall and living room and glancing at his open bedroom door. "She left already? Didn''t think she was working today," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. He sighed, returning to the island to pour himself a third cup of coffee. Judging by how he couldn''t keep his hands still--they kept rising to twist in his hair or rub the back of his neck--Cyrus thought the last thing Raziel needed was more caffeine.


    He also knew better than to voice that assumption.


    The coffee machine sputtered as it made the drink, but the sound was not enough to cover the sudden rumbling coming from Cyrus''s stomach. Raziel glanced back over his shoulder, letting out an even deeper sigh. "Right, I suppose I''ll have to feed you. I''ll remember that the next time Vay whines about wanting children, as if I needed another reason to turn that down."


    With the talk about demon hybrid offspring earlier, Cyrus was surprised he hadn''t thought about what a demon-demon pairing could possibly create. Since Nevaeh had left, he''d let down his mental wall once again; it took too much effort holding up those days, what with all the other concerns he had to deal with. As Raziel dug through the nearly empty pantry, he said with his back still turned, "Demons aren''t compatible together. We don''t have the actual human sense of a life in us to make a new one, not alone, so don''t worry about that."


    He gave up on his search of the cupboards and opened the refrigerator to reveal the only contents: a few white cardboard boxes of takeout. "Well, kid, this''ll have to do for now. I''ll have Nevaeh pick some groceries up on her way back," Raziel said, plunking one of the boxes down in front of Cyrus.


    Not like he could complain, not with what he''d gotten used to eating. Cold Chinese leftovers weren''t the worst things in the world. There were a dozen things on Cyrus''s mind, but not having to speak them aloud to make them known became very convenient then; as he ate, he focused on each curiosity, one at a time.


    So when did you and her, you know...? Cyrus thought, Nevaeh being one of the most pressing matters at the moment.


    Grimacing into his newly filled mug, Raziel said, "I met her after Acheron and I parted ways the last time, some exotic locale far away from here, but Vay insisted on joining me when I returned to the city. What can I say?" Raziel cracked a grin, but his eyes were still sort of blank. "I have that effect on people."


    So you eat, Cyrus thought next, and sleep...?


    "Oh, we do all sorts of things humans do," Raziel said in a suggestive tone, "but the need is nowhere near as frequent."


    Shuddering, Cyrus tried to untangle the mess his mind was in. Watching him with resignation, Raziel shook his head and propped his chin on one fist. "Any more questions?" he asked sarcastically.


    Of course Cyrus had more questions. Those first ones just happened to be the least complicated. They came in no particular order, each one jesting for his attention.


    The first one found a chink in Raziel''s stoic armor, and a weary grimace etched across his face. "After it was all said and done, I guess reality finally sunk in. I got the hell outta here, but not for the first several years. I convinced Acheron to leave you be for the first part of your life, that if he ever wanted you to fit in amongst humanity, you would need to grow up knowing it.


    "But he grew impatient. He was sure you would become useless, but I guess you passed his first test."


    Pain shot through Cyrus''s chest and he pushed away the carton of food, appetite chased away by the memory of killing his mother.


    Raziel offered an apologetic smile, but wasn''t done. "I didn''t want to keep playing Ach''s game, and he never hunted me down. There was no need to, he already had gotten what he wanted. I did a decent enough job distracting myself, but then word of what was happening back here caught up to me. Never thought you would leave his side, so I figured a trip back would be pointless...but then it happened."


    Raziel sighed, tipping back his mug and draining it. It clattered back down onto the counter with enough force to make Cyrus jump a little. He hurried onto his next question.


    "Of course Vay was curious what you would amount to, as well, but she really is Switzerland. Honestly, she''s too young to be dragged into these politics--just a couple hundred years old." Before Cyrus could really take in that information, Raziel tapped at an imaginary watch on his wrist.  "As much as I''m enjoying this little Dr. Phil session from hell, there''s bigger fish to fry here, kid."


    Cyrus just stared at him blankly.


    "No? That one go over your head, too?" Raziel snorted. "Woulda killed the bastard to show you some television now and then, huh?"


    Finding himself--and not knowing why--leaping to Acheron''s defense, Cyrus began to detail all the other uses of his time the old mentor had found to be more productive.


    "Ugh, screw that. I don''t have the patience for that anachronistic spiritual crap, I''m not gonna make you meditate or whatever." At Cyrus''s raised eyebrows, Raziel continued, "Right. First order of business: gimme the knife."


    Cyrus had actually forgotten its presence with all the other things occupying his mind that day; now, the feeling of it weighing down his pocket was blindingly apparent. "What if I need it--?"


    "Did you already forget the rules?"


    The coolness of the demon''s tone sent a shiver down Cyrus''s spine. Gritting his teeth, he took the dagger out and slid it across the counter into Raziel''s waiting hand. Looking down at it, he curled his lip, using two fingers to pinch the handle. Muttering under his breath, Raziel disappeared from the room and returned with empty hands.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Raking disapproving eyes over Cyrus, he said, "You got anything more...weather-appropriate to wear?"


    Cyrus shrugged, playing with the hem of his borrowed shirt.


    "Lord, ain''t you one sad sack." Raziel sighed sharply before once again heading for the hall, calling back, "I suppose I''ll have to order you some shit off Amazon, but consider that yet another favor. One of these days you''re gonna have to pay your own way, kid." He returned with a puffy black winter coat, which he threw at Cyrus. "Don''t worry about giving that back, I don''t need it. Mostly for appearances, the cold doesn''t bother me."


    "Pay my way?" Cyrus mumbled, shoving his arms into the jacket. The strong stench of cigarettes coming from the fabric engulfed him.


    "Oh, you know, get a job?" Raziel responded, crossing his arms. "Get a life? This whole wounded-puppy thing gets old fast."


    The idea just wasn''t fathomable. Cyrus began to protest when Raziel raised one hand.


    "Yeah yeah, one thing at a time. C''mon, I''m not getting any younger."


    To Cyrus''s immense relief, Raziel was in a decent enough mood to allow for a more human form of travel. For the majority of the day, they walked through the streets of the Bronx, which Raziel proclaimed to be the area most in demand of miracles. Apparently, a day in the life of this demon mainly consisted of answering very mundane prayers--giving a few bucks to the homeless here, coaxing a cat down from a tree there. Cyrus would have found that last one comical, but strangely, the animal seemed drawn to the demon. Its owner, a frail-looking woman with a limp, insisted the thing had been up in the tree for hours. As soon as Raziel walked past her house, feigning surprise at seeing the sight, the cat finally bounded from branch to branch before landing agiley at Raziel''s feet. It regarded him with a steady stare before the woman picked it up, at which time the cat let out a screech and struggled to get free.


    Before the woman could get too touchy with her gratitude--she seemed like a hugger--they were moving on again. The little miracles remained strangely, terribly mundane until evening had finally come, dragging the last remnants of the sun below the horizon.


    "Well, then," Raziel said, turning to Cyrus with a small smile. "You ready for something a little more exciting?"


    Something to get him out of his head was just what Cyrus needed. All day, his attention wasn''t explicitly needed, and had frequently returned to Raziel''s story.  It still needled at him how similar he could have ended up to Acheron, so drowned in his own pain that everyone else''s became a whole lot less significant.


    As they walked to their next destination, however, Cyrus found it was not easy to quiet his mind. At one point, Raziel dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder and spat, "Would it kill you to focus?" Cyrus tried to not react to the annoyance dripping from his tone; studying him, Raziel sighed, voice softening. "My next trick will be very dangerous if you can''t keep your head on straight. How about this: I answer one more question now, and then you work on the whole ''focusing'' thing."


    The ritual was on his mind, the very little he knew about how he''d come to be. Choosing the most pressing question, Cyrus silently wondered why of all people, Tuesday had gotten his soul.


    "Kismet, fate?" Raziel shrugged. "I don''t know. You two were born at the nearly the same time, I guess it just sort of worked out."


    He paused, eyes narrowing for a moment. Glancing upwards, Raziel gave a soft laugh, though his expression was still as cold and sharp as the winter air.


    "You remember the church I mentioned that drove Acheron out?" he whispered. "Strangely enough, the leader of that congregation at the time was a member of the Hale clan, several generations back."


    Cyrus didn''t know how to absorb that information, but decided this was definitely the last question he should have asked. How was he supposed to focus now? His mind only seemed to clutter up further until he couldn''t make sense of whatever was going on in there.


    "Don''t read too much into it," Raziel pressed, glancing up at the sky once more. "The universe has a strange sense of humor. It could all be as simple as that. Now, come on."


    Before Raziel could walk ten steps, he stopped abruptly once again. Cyrus stumbled into him but Raziel did not react, eyes wide and going unfocused.


    "I believe we have company..."


    He turned, scanning the darkened streets all around them. Nothing lurked in the shadows, and whatever Raziel had noticed wasn''t close enough to set off Cyrus''s own senses.


    "A reaper." Raziel answered his unspoken question under his breath.


    Out loud, mimicking his whisper, Cyrus prompted, "Rogue?" His fingers were itching for his knife, but had to admit Raziel was probably right to take it away.


    In response, Raziel simply gave a curt shake of his head. Raising his voice now, he called out, "I think you''re a little lost, friend."


    A shadow separated from the wall of blackness to their left where the light from the streetlamps couldn''t reach. Peeling himself away from an alley wall, a man strode leisurely into view. Upon reaching the sidewalk, Cyrus could now see the black spheres of his true eyes.


    "No," the newcomer said with a wide smile. "I''m exactly where I need to be." He jutted his chin out, nodding to Cyrus, looking him up and down.


    Cyrus tensed in response, the desire to have a knife to steady his shaking hands around returning. Raziel stiffened beside him as well, but his careful emotionless expression did not change. "Listen here, you little fucker," he murmured, deadpan. "I don''t know where you came crawling up from, but it''s in your best interest you return--"


    The reaper raised his hands up, palms forward, but nothing in his tense stature hinted at any sign of submission. "I simply wanted to know what all the fuss was about." Once again, he inclined his head towards Cyrus, this time with a curled lip. "You have an infinite source of raw power at your disposal and you decided to...domesticate it?"


    "This is not a fight you want," Raziel responded in a voice that would have made Cyrus cower had it been directed at him. With each word, the fire in his eyes grew and the nighttime darkness seemed to cling to him, shadows dancing around him. "Go running back to your master and spread the word--this is my domain now."


    The reaper did not speak again, shrinking back a few steps but otherwise holding his ground for several more moments. The tension between them was tangible, painfully so; it took all of Cyrus''s self-control not to obey his baser instincts and flee himself.


    Then the reaper cracked a tiny smile, nodded slowly and retreated back into the shadows.


    Raziel released a shaky sigh, grabbing Cyrus by the arm and dragging him down the street. His own strides were no match for the demon''s and he had to jog to keep up. When they were half a mile away, Raziel finally slowed, releasing his grip.


    Realizing he wasn''t even entirely sure just what reapers were capable of, unsure of just how dangerous that encounter had been, Cyrus couldn''t help but break the silence by asking the question on his mind.


    Half in a daze, voice quiet and eyes downcast, Raziel replied, "Those mongrels have as much power as their demon counterparts allow them, which is never much--they have to to give it from their own resources. He was a pest, that''s all." He cut off for a second, hand covering his mouth as he fell deeper into his trance.


    Finally breaking from it a minute later, Raziel met Cyrus''s wide eyes. "The real worry would be the rogues, yes, but I can''t imagine there are many left. Luckily they hadn''t caught the attention of the humans, but I''ve encountered so many in the city recently..." If it was possible, he seemed to pale, any trace of color the anger had placed on his face retreating. Voice dropping yet again, Raziel muttered, "It''s almost as if you''ve influenced more of them to turn..."


    "Acheron said it happens when they take in too many souls," Cyrus protested, not wanting to shoulder any more blame. He was struggling as it was, nearly drowning under it in his most lucid moments.


    "Well, yes, but what if your darkness is infectious, the need to kill so strong..." Raziel visibly shuddered. "Maybe we don''t know the full extent of the impact your existence has. Christ, we gotta get that beacon of yours dimmed, and fast."


    After several minutes of silent consideration, Raziel began to speak again. "Numbing you did nothing, having a conscience doesn''t hold you back...I''m beginning to think we need outside help, kid."


    Cyrus waited for any suggestions, not feeling in the least bit patient. The anxiety of having to wait for Raziel to work out his own thoughts manifested in the shaking of Cyrus''s limbs, the way he couldn''t catch his breath.


    "I''ve definitely gone off the deep end here," Raziel finally said with a nervous laugh, "but all that talk of witchcraft earlier...no, nothing like that Salem shit, kid. They were nothing more than human. Whatever those people suspected to be witches, good chance was they were actually reapers--the legends around witches being that they sold their soul to the devil--but their magic is much too subtle to be so easily detected."


    Raziel stopped walking, lightly tapping his head like it could help him get his thoughts back on track. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tight.


    "I''m talking real witchcraft--cleansing auras or chakras or whatever the hell. The problem is making sure it''s legit. There''s a plethora of so-called practitioners here but anyone with a true gift isn''t gonna be publicizing and monetizing off it."


    Against his greater judgement--the thought made Cyrus almost laugh--Tuesday''s aunt came to mind. He was ready to shove that thought away again just as quickly, label it a bad joke and move on to whatever the real solution would be, when Raziel opened his eyes again to stare at Cyrus incredulously.


    "What was that?" he prompted softly. "No, go back, let me see that again."


    Cyrus obeyed, recalling again how aware the woman had seemed to be of him, then tracing over the little oddities he''d noticed throughout the house. Bowls of crystals, incense, and a plethora of other things that Cyrus was reluctant to label as strange but also had never even been a part of his own meditation rituals.


    Raziel laughed, loudly, throwing his head back. In a gesture Cyrus could only hope was ironic, he added a knee-slap for good measure. "Ah, I''ll be damned. The universe has a way of repaying its debts, too, it seems." Sobering, Raziel waved a hand at Cyrus. "Well, lead the way, kid. I think it''s time we pay this witch a visit."


    "I--don''t think that''s a good--" Cyrus began to say, only able to picture the scorn Tuesday''s Aunt had to offer him. To be honest, she sort of scared him.


    "You''re really not good at the whole following orders thing," Raziel responded coldly. "Be careful with your next move...ball''s in your court."


    Deciding Raziel was infinitely scarier, Cyrus nodded quickly. Despite all his inhibitions, he dutifully retraced his steps back from the now-skeleton of a house--scorched, blackened scraps of wood basically the only proof of what had once occupied the space--to Tuesday''s new home.

 11 § Confession

    Tuesday spent two days in a row going to Jordan''s after school. On the second, the other girl suggested they go to Tuesday''s place, but she wasn''t eager to be labeled a freak so soon. Tuesday doubted that would happen, but was still slightly worried her aunt would come off as too eccentric. After all, she''d already chased off one of Tuesday''s friends.


    Even if she had been right about him...


    These hangouts were becoming a much-anticipated part of Tuesday''s day. They didn''t always smoke or stuff like that. Jordan, true to her word, had turned on Netflix, given Tuesday the remote and told her to go wild. They stayed up late enough watching cheesy scary movies--things so unrealistic Tuesday could only really laugh at in reaction--that she earned herself a scolding from Aunt Mary.


    She didn''t regret it, even when the next day it was even more difficult than usual to get out of bed. With Jordan, she didn''t have to face who she truly was.


    But even that began to eat at her.


    Lies had a way of coming to the light, and Tuesday wasn''t eager to have her own double-life revealed. On a second round of b-rate horror flicks, Jordan fell asleep beside her and Tuesday didn''t bother waking her. She watched the other girl, seeming even more serene in sleep, bathed in the yellowish pale glow of the television--and silently confessed her sins. She hadn''t been to confession in months, and it was not easy to fall back into the routine, especially considering she hadn''t even spoken aloud yet.


    She obsessed over just what she could say and how so long that she, too, fell victim to exhaustion. When she awoke, the movie had switched to the "Are you still watching?" screen and the room had fallen into otherwise total darkness beyond the television''s subtle light. Glancing beside herself, Tuesday jumped, seeing Jordan was already awake and sitting upright--so still she hadn''t even realized. The other girl was slowly scanning the room with wide eyes.


    "You okay? You look like you''ve seen a ghost," Tuesday joked, jabbing her with her elbow.


    Jordan laughed, the sound coming out forced, and glanced down at her lap where her hands were twisting anxiously. "Yeah, man, I just--thought I saw something, or someone." Seeing the look on Tuesday''s face, she quickly added, "It totally had to have been a nightmare, a really vivid one. You know what they say about eating too much sugar before bed." Jordan sheepishly gestured towards the empty candy wrappers littering the coffee table.


    Though a shiver wracked her spine, Tuesday nodded along in agreement. For several minutes they chatted about something insignificant she couldn''t really focus on, simply reacting where it seemed necessary but not contributing anything valuable to the conversation. In their sleep, the two girls had jammed together closer on the sofa--facing each other, legs overlapping--and the comfortable closeness only served to remind Tuesday how unfair she was being. She couldn''t keep enjoying someone else''s presence until she was sure they were completely consenting--obviously, Tuesday couldn''t disclose all of her sins, but the first one was surely a start.


    "Are you okay?" Jordan suddenly said, interrupting her own monologue.


    No, she wasn''t. She didn''t even know why these things bothered her so fiercely now. For as long as she''d been helping Cyrus, she basically did so without batting an eye. Maybe that was the problem, though, maybe he was what made it so easy to tamp these feelings down. She''d gone a whole month without that influence, and it had been debatably the most hellish month of her life. Even if her reactions had changed, though, nothing else had.


    "I don''t know," Tuesday said quietly. "I don''t know how to explain it."


    "Maybe you just need to see things from a new perspective." With a crooked grin, Jordan twisted around and repositioned herself so her legs were raised over the back of the couch and her head dangled off the cushions.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Unable to hold back a laugh, Tuesday followed suit. It was hard to support her body in that position, and even harder to breathe, but she didn''t complain even as all the blood rushed to her head and it began to ache.


    At first it was hard to take either of them seriously like that, and Tuesday almost ditched the whole confession thing in favor of laughing hysterically along with Jordan. Then the laughter inevitably died and Tuesday was left with--nothing. She felt blank again.


    She looked downward to avoid the eyes she felt on her, studying the blonde pile her hair was resting in upon the carpet beneath their heads. "I''ve done some...bad things."


    "Like what, cheat on the SAT?"


    "...killed my father."


    Tuesday had always been too scared to act out but the first time was always the hardest, and after him? She''d so willingly brought death to, well, she couldn''t even remember how many other men. That had to be terrible--right? Shouldn''t the exact number be permanently branded upon her psyche?


    She couldn''t distract herself with those thoughts forever; eventually, she had to acknowledge Jordan''s stunned silence. Tuesday risked a peek beside her only to be unable to analyze her friend''s expression.


    Jordan swung her legs around, returning to a normal sitting position, and Tuesday did the same with a thousand regrets burning a hole in her chest.


    "What did he do?"


    Tuesday looked over at her again, not expecting that to be her first response. Immediately assuming he''d done something to deserve being murdered by his own daughter--well, when Tuesday imagined herself in Jordan''s position, that wouldn''t be the first concern on her mind. "Ah...he, well, he tried to--"


    Jordan quickly held up a hand, face reddening. "Oh, shit, stop. I had no right to ask that, I''m sorry."


    The tension slowly leaving her body, Tuesday replied, "I mean, I brought it up. It''s okay." She let out a shaky sigh that alleviated the rest of the pressure off her chest. "I''ve just been, y''know...it''s been rough."


    Jordan just stared at her, and Tuesday couldn''t help but look away; she didn''t need sadness. She didn''t need pity. She just wanted to be accepted, dammit--accepted by someone normal.


    "What?" she whispered, feeling her own face get hot. It felt like a repeat of every awful, awkward presentation she''d stumbled and stammered through as the entire class picked it apart and slowly ate her alive just by watching her.


    Jordan shook her head, looking down at her hands. "You''re just--jesus, you''re just so strong." She looked up again, eyes shining. "I really admire that. Anyone else in your position, they might not have made it this far with so much shit hanging over their head."


    It wasn''t often Tuesday was caught so much by surprise that all intelligible thought surpassed her. She blinked, and opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She didn''t end up needing to come up with a response, though, when her phone began to ring.


    Remembering the last time that had happened, a part of her was tempted to not repeat the experience--she wanted to live in this moment, just a little longer. But when Tuesday glanced down, she saw AUNT MARY written across the lockscreen image of a sandy beach after dusk.


    When she answered the call, she got no greeting; Mary jumped straight in. "You need to come home, now."


    The anger in her voice shocked Tuesday enough she nearly dropped the phone. "What''s going on?"


    There was a small pause, then: "Your--friends--are here." Her voice twisted over the word in disgust.


    Oh, fuck.


    Tuesday shot up from the couch. Jordan rose with her, and, regarding her with unease, she said, "Was that your friend again?"


    She put a similar twist on the word as Mary had. Not having time to contemplate that, Tuesday shook her head, snatching up her belongings and throwing on her coat. She quickly gave up on buttoning it, putting the first few in the wrong holes with violently shaking hands. "No, my aunt just needs me back."


    "Well, let me give you a ride."


    Tuesday looked up, biting her lip. It would be faster than walking, that was for sure. Sighing, she nodded in agreement and followed Jordan out to her car, all the while hoping she wouldn''t see anything--weird. God, what a shitshow her life was turning out to be.


    They arrived to Mary''s house in a matter of minutes, but it was enough to have acclimated Tuesday to the warmth of Jordan''s car, the scent of the silly pine air freshener dangling from the mirror, and how Jordan had resigned herself to driving one-handed--clutching Tuesday''s with her free hand when she noticed it shaking. It had helped, remembering she wasn''t alone, and now she didn''t want to leave.


    Then she saw a shadow pass behind the closed kitchen window curtain, and reality hit her again. "Thank you," she said quickly, pulling her hand free. Jordan barely had time to respond before she was bounding out of the car, but the other girl didn''t pull out of the driveway until Tuesday had unlocked and opened the front door.


    Taking one deep breath to steady herself, Tuesday reminded herself what Jordan had said--she was strong--and entered the house.

 12 § One Witch, Two Witch

    As if this were a totally normal housecall, Raziel rang the doorbell.


    On the other hand, Cyrus''s fight-or-flight instincts were kicking in. The day had dragged on and the only place he wanted to be was a bed, preferably at least a few miles away from Tuesday''s aunt. And what was the point of trying this anyhow? It seemed like a longshot.


    Before Cyrus could think of a way to convince Raziel they should turn back, the door opened. In less than a second, the bright expectant expression on the woman''s face morphed into shock, and then anger. "You''re not welcome here," she said, pointing a finger at Cyrus like it could double as a knife. Turning to the demon beside him, her expression only grew more agitated.


    "Oh, Jesus," she whispered.


    "Not even close," Raziel said, no hint of concern on his own face. He nudged the door open and in her shock, she let him past. Cyrus had no choice but to follow him inside, although he tried to shoot her his most apologetic look. "Truly sorry to barge in like this, but we''ve got a cosmic level problem on our hands here and I think you''re just the person we need to help--" he cut off with raised eyebrows.


    She gave Raziel a malice-filled glare, and Cyrus noticed her hand twitching down into the pocket of her apron. He tensed, fearing the worst, but this only caused Raziel to laugh.


    "Aw, c''mon, doll. That''s a myth, salt isn''t going to hurt me--why don''t you save yourself some dignity and just humor me here?"


    "My soul cannot be tainted without my permission," she retorted, crossing her arms, "and I refuse to consort with the likes of you."


    Raziel clucked his tongue. "You''re really only dragging this out. I''m not leaving until we have a proper discussion." Hearing Cyrus''s concern of what she might do in retaliation, Raziel half-turned his head towards him and added, "Nah kid, she may be a witch but it doesn''t make her any less human."


    "That''s derogatory," the woman hissed.


    "Maybe if we were on a first name basis this could be a whole lot friendlier."


    Looking between the two of her uninvited visitors, she exhaled sharply. "Alright, my name is Mary--but don''t bother telling me yours. I don''t need or want to know." She wrung her hands together, and Cyrus had a feeling if she had her way, they''d be around his neck. "What is it exactly you think I can do?"


    "Oh, I''m sure you''ll be quite agreeable to it--you seem to have a similar aversion to his, ah, ''bad karma''."


    "Gods help me," she whispered bitterly. This only earned yet another laugh from Raziel, and Mary looked back to him sharply. "Your beliefs do not cancel my own."


    Raziel simply folded his own arms across his chest, awaiting an answer. Cyrus stood off to the side, still fighting the urge to bolt; it was like being in the middle of a stand-off between lions.


    "Would you rather this little rascal continue being his dark and twisted self?" Raziel murmured, all humor leaving his tone. "I know you''ve noticed that niece of yours isn''t totally normal either, and believe it or not I''m trying to keep her from going down a similar path."


    The mention of Tuesday brought an even harsher bite to Mary''s tone. "I don''t want him anywhere near my home or niece."


    "She makes him more human, and besides, you can''t keep them separated for long." Raziel''s voice dropped, lacking any emotion as if he were commenting on the weather or something else equally trivial. "This kind of thing...it always comes back."


    That seemed to crack a bit of Mary''s resolve and she wavered, unspeaking for a moment before her expression hardened again. "So, what I''m hearing is, Tuesday helps him--but what is he doing for her?"


    Raziel''s response came quickly and calmly. "Oh, darkens her up just enough to deal with that pesky little conscience that would otherwise eat her alive." He paused, letting that sink in. "Look. You''re not the only thing that can sense his darkness--except those other things are starving for it."


    That was the final nail in the coffin. Mary sighed, dropping her defensive position and glancing back to Cyrus for just a moment. Shuddering, she looked back to Raziel. "This won''t work if he doesn''t want it to."


    "He does," Raziel responded firmly.


    "As much as I''d love to take your word for it, I want to hear it from him. I''m not wasting my time on a lost cause."


    All eyes fell on Cyrus. The memory of winning Delilah over came back then, so out of place in his new reality that it temporarily took away his ability to speak or even breathe. That was Old Him. This new one--he didn''t know what to do, what to say.


    "Give him a minute," Raziel faux-whispered behind one hand. "He chokes up sometimes, I think it''s a medical thing."


    Cyrus averted his eyes, trying to calm himself. Deep breath in--Lord, that stung--deep breath out. Nothing particularly charming or heart-wrenching came to mind. He was left to beg. "I don''t want to be like this anymore," he finally said, though each word fell heavy as lead from his mouth and made his throat ache. "Please help me."


    Giving Cyrus one last suspicious stare, Mary held up one finger and pulled out her phone. After a quick, sharp demand that Tuesday come home, the call was over and her attention was once again set on Cyrus. "Sit down," she said, gesturing to one of the dining table chairs. Snapping her fingers at Raziel, she said to him, "I need to get my supplies, and you--you''re coming with me. I am not leaving you alone."


    With a warm chuckle, Raziel obliged, following her down the hallway and out of sight.


    While they were gone, Cyrus drummed his fingers on the table and continued to work on steadying his breathing. He didn''t know what had come over him. As he tried to make sense of it, two headlight beams swerved across the kitchen wall, shining through the kitchen window. Now another jolt of adrenaline rushed through him, for an entirely different reason--but still part of his fight-or-flight response. And another thing was rushing through his veins now, competing with the adrenaline--anticipation.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The front door opened and Tuesday rounded the corner, eyes widening upon seeing Cyrus. He didn''t stand to greet her, afraid his legs would give out beneath him.


    "Um, wow, what are you doing here?"


    But Cyrus was fresh out of people skills, and could not get himself to speak again. Tuesday came over to his side, cocking her head and looking him over. She placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder and squeezed.


    "You okay?"


    Footsteps sounded in the hallway, followed moments later by Raziel and Mary''s re-entrance into the kitchen. At the sight of the demon, Tuesday shrank back a bit, hand dropping back to her side.


    "Hello again," Raziel purred with a smirk, waving one hand.


    "Oh, great, so she knows you too," Mary muttered, setting a bundle of sage tied together with white twine onto the table along with a tall, purple candle.  "Interesting company you keep. That''s not how I would have raised you."


    "Well, you didn''t," Tuesday responded, voice unexpectedly sharp. Cyrus tried to meet her eyes, but she refused to look at anyone--especially Mary, who was pinning her down with a death-stare.


    After a long, tense silence, Raziel gave a low whistle. "Alright everyone, let''s play nice, hmm?" Seemingly eager to change subjects, he continued, "So, I get what the sage is for, but what about the candle?"


    "To get rid of his--odor," Mary muttered, lighting it. The room, almost immediately, began to fill with the scent of lavender. "Jesus, it''s like the kid''s been living on the streets."


    No one knew quite what to say to that.


    Mary instructed Cyrus to lay flat on the floor, and when she saw the blush spreading across his face, her lips turned down disapprovingly. "You need to have faith in this, and by default, me. Think you can do that?"


    He quickly nodded.


    Mary stooped down to join him, holding a lighter to one end of the sage bundle. She let the flame flicker for several seconds before blowing it out and dispersing a large cloud of pungent, faintly minty smoke. She directed Tuesday to open the kitchen window, who obeyed silently.


    "Sage symbolizes new beginnings," Mary said, holding the stick above Cyrus''s feet. She let it hover there for several seconds before making her way slowly up the rest of his body. "It has its fair share of cleansing properties--"


    "And that''s gonna fix his mojo?" Raziel interjected, the hint of uncertainty now entering his voice.


    Mary shot him a warning glare that implied if he kept talking, the hot bundle of herbs she was holding was going to end up someplace far less pleasant. "Not on its own. He has to do some of the heavy-lifting as well. I doubt this will last long..." she trailed off, returning to her work. "But it should help."


    Looking down at Cyrus, Mary said, "I want you to envision all that negativity leaving your body--imagine yourself bathed in a bright, blue light--"


    "Isn''t it supposed to be white?" Raziel muttered.


    Cyrus caught Tuesday''s eye and they both smiled; Cyrus hurried to cover his own before Mary could see. He shut his eyes and tried to obey Mary''s request. It was hard at first, to take it seriously, but then all the memories came flooding back--both his own and the ones the demon power had brought him. Blood, bodies, carnage, destruction, all the terrible things Cyrus had left in his wake...


    "I said imagine it leaving you," Mary prompted. He could feel the heat coming from the smudge stick now above his chest.


    He screwed his eyes shut tighter and focused, unsure at first how to do what she wanted--but then figured it probably wasn''t far off from forgiving himself.


    Could he do that?


    Cyrus tried to think about his redeeming qualities. He had always made a point of only taking what was necessary--at least, until near the end when his emotions had gotten the better of him. The burning boy, the Second Advent woman''s heart attack...those had been something totally different.


    One kill for a demented elder''s approval. One kill for, well, that one had nobler intentions, right?


    It didn''t matter, Cyrus reminded himself, it was said and done and now all he could do was try and be better. Not even dying would cleanse him of his sins. Living and atoning for them, well, he had a better shot there.


    "Alright," Mary sighed. "How do you feel?"


    Cyrus opened his eyes to see everyone staring at him, varying degrees of hope in their expressions. He unclenched his fists and took his time taking in and releasing one deep breath, focusing on how it felt leaving his body.


    He had to admit, he felt pretty relaxed despite the circumstances, and he seemed to be alone in his head for the time being. Still, Cyrus was on edge, waiting for the moment the fa?ade would crumble and reveal the chaos he knew was still lurking in him.


    "One day at a time," Raziel sighed, turning to Mary. "Might not hold long, you''re right about that, but it''s a hell of a lot better--can you tell?"


    She nodded, raking speculative eyes over Cyrus.


    "Now, as for our more long term options...what do you know about exorcisms?"


    Cyrus''s eyes went to Raziel in utter shock, unable to decide if he was joking--he''d never heard of such a thing, but then again, what demon would tell him such a surefire way of destroying them?


    Mary snorted, seemingly just as astounded by the concept. "Well, if you''re referring to those things the Catholic Church performs, that''s all very hush-hush and not likely to be too helpful in this scenario."


    "Yes, I know," Raziel snapped. "Of course I didn''t mean it in the typical sense of the word, you and I both know the absurdity behind those things--but can you find any information to, yaknow, fulfill a similar purpose?"


    Not appearing convinced, Mary said, "I''ll see what I can do." Turning once more to Cyrus, she said, "Try to come to terms with the fact that this may very well be something you''ll just have to learn to live with."


    He looked down, chewing on his lip until it bled.


    "Alright, I think it''s time you get out of my house," Mary sighed, rubbing her forehead.


    As Raziel and Cyrus filed out, Tuesday caught the door before it could shut and slipped outside along with them. Shooting the house a quick glance, she said, "Cyrus? Can we talk for a sec?"


    Raziel looked back at the two of them, lips quirking as he produced a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He walked a few paces away, turning his back as he lit up.


    That was about as much privacy as they could hope for. Knowing this, Tuesday continued, "Soo, does this mean I''ll be seeing more of you?"


    Cyrus didn''t want to acknowledge the probability that, yes, he would need to come back and repeat this little experiment. He gave a slight nod, fidgeting with his hands until he could think of something else to say.


    "I''ve been thinking," he said slowly, "of what you said..." Remembering her words about friendship being a two-way street. "What can I do for you? What do you...need from me?"


    After a moment of tense silence, Tuesday''s lips split into a grin. "Oh, Cy. There''s actually something coming up, it would mean a lot to me if you were there..." She trailed off, expression slipping into a brief frown. "It might be, y''know, weird, but...I turn eighteen in a week and I''m having some friends over to celebrate. Will you be here?"


    His first reaction was shock¡ªjust now turning eighteen? According to Raziel''s earlier comment, they''d been born close together, which meant Cyrus''s assumption of his age had been a little off.


    And then came his next thought. Friends--normal friends, likely, friends who didn''t have the urge to tear her apart like a chew toy sometimes. Cyrus clenched his hands, hiding them in his pockets, but he couldn''t bear to let her down.


    Not again.


    So he nodded and revelled in the smile that came back to life in response. Tuesday leapt forward, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his neck.


    It seemed he hadn''t lost his charm after all.


    After a moment, they both seemed to realize how different this felt now. She stiffened and pulled away, smile sort of slipping. Nodding at Cyrus, she whispered, "See you then," before retreating back into the house.


    "Lord, is it a mess in there," Raziel suddenly said, now facing Cyrus and staring pointedly at his forehead. "Counting my blessings I''ll never have to experience what it''s like to be a teenage boy."


    "Shut up," Cyrus muttered, not loud enough for Raziel to hear, and followed him back to his apartment.

 13 § Whitewashed Tombs

    No matter how much he''d doubted its usefulness, the smudging had apparently had a positive effect on Cyrus. Nevaeh had beat them back home, her first words of greeting being, "Well, what the hell happened to him?"


    Raziel, pleased with how obvious the results were, clapped Cyrus on the back and said, "We found ourselves a working witch."


    Setting her wine glass down on the island with a reverberating thunk, Nevaeh appraised them with raised eyebrows. "And she was strong enough to tamp all that¡ª" she waved one hand in Cyrus''s direction¡ª "down?"


    "Don''t get too excited, it''s a temporary solution," Raziel responded, headed behind the bar and searched beneath it before rising again with a bottle in hand. "But cause for celebration, nonetheless, I''d say. Would you object to something a little stronger?" he asked, nodding to Nevaeh''s glass.


    She pushed the wine glass away and tapped her nails on the counter. "Keep ''em coming, darling."


    Looking at Cyrus pointedly, Raziel said, "Isn''t it past your bedtime?"


    As if he needed an excuse to get out of there. Without even a mental retort to that last comment, Cyrus retreated to his room for the night. For a while he remained awake, thinking over everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours or so¡ªenough material to last him several hours of contemplation before sleep finally dragged him under. The last thing he remembered pondering was Mary and Raziel''s explanations on their way back about witches. Apparently, people like her were few and far between; they were born with the gift, and how it came to be was basically a mystery. Their own power was subtle, only having much ground in very natural domains¡ªcalming energies; basic spells for good fortune; nothing that would really attract much attention. If it weren''t for how obviously sensitive Mary had been to their different energies, no one would have suspected her.


    The next week passed in a blur, Raziel working Cyrus from dawn to dusk with basically no break, causing him to crash immediately each night and sleep all the way till the next morning. For the first few days, the demon dragged him around the city and continued working his little miracles. The conflict with the reaper had made Cyrus forget about Raziel''s "next trick", but this was brought up again one night in the Bronx.


    Tuning into yet another prayer had led Raziel to a neighborhood that could bring the white picket fence stereotype to tears. It seemed every other house had boards nailed over any opening, graffiti tagging the walls and weeds choking the yard wilting under the thin layer of snow dusting the ground. On the properties that particularly stood out, barbed wire glinted under the moonlight, lining some of the fences.


    Before Cyrus could ask what the current mission was exactly, a scream pierced through the otherwise eerie silence. It had come from several blocks away, but that was the thing about screaming at night¡ªthe sound travels so much further.


    Raziel ordered him to stay out of the way when they neared the conflict: two men had a woman backed up into a wall, one holding a knife to her throat as the other rummaged through a purse before tossing it aside, not sparing it a second glance. That wasn''t what they''d come for, that much was glaringly obvious as they held her down.


    Close enough now to hear, one of the men was saying, "What''s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"


    "Tell me that''s not your best material," Raziel responded, strolling leisurely towards them as Cyrus stayed behind, away from the flickering, dying light of a nearby streetlamp.


    The men whirled around, one pulling a gun from his waistband, making it halfway to its desired position, but it never reached Raziel''s chest. With a simple flick of his wrist, the weapon went sailing out the man''s hand and out of sight. He blinked, open-mouthed and staring stupidly at his now empty hand. He raised his eyes to meet Raziel''s, and Cyrus tensed, unsure what trick the demon would pull next¡ª


    ¡ªbut Raziel simply wound his arm back and sent it forward again, cracking his fist into the man''s face.


    Shaking his hand out, he glanced back at Cyrus with a wry smile. "Who needs therapy when you can do that, amiright?"


    The first man was crumpled on the pavement, groaning, but the second had begun to move. His knife hand went forward before pausing, looking between Raziel and his fallen companion.


    "Fuck this," he said, and turned, sprinting in the other direction.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Stepping over the body at his feet, which was still emitting low whimpers, Raziel offered his phone to the woman. Whole body quaking, she regarded him with wild eyes for only several seconds before accepting it. After she presumably called the police, Raziel took the phone back and returned to Cyrus.


    "Of course she won''t tattle on me," he responded to Cyrus''s unspoken concerns as they left the neighborhood. "Who would believe her, anyway?"


    Most of the other prayers he answered didn''t live up to the excitement of that one, but things kicked up a notch when Raziel asked one day, "How would you like a change of scenery?"


    Cyrus actually just wanted to stay in bed, beginning to suspect he was being kept so busy to ward off an idle mind. Idleness equalled wandering thoughts and a higher awareness of the things going on beneath his skin...so he figured it was for the best and did not complain.


    Raziel ended up asking that Cyrus contribute in some way and help him lock onto prayers, saying he wanted to get out of the city¡ªso go wild, no location off limits.


    It had been awhile, too long apparently, since Cyrus had attempted to hone in on a prayer and he couldn''t get himself to do it again. Reluctance was his biggest enemy, surely; he was too afraid of what would happen if he used his powers. He was still managing himself decently and didn''t want to screw it up.


    Raziel was annoyed at this but didn''t push him further. Using the demon way of travel, they crossed the globe doing good deeds until Cyrus was ready to collapse from exhaustion. Upon getting home the sixth night, his frustration got the better of him and he proclaimed, "This isn''t going to erase my sins."


    "That isn''t the point, kid," Raziel replied. "Ever think about doing good things just because they''re good, not because you''re expecting to get something out of them?"


    Cyrus didn''t bother pointing out that was precisely Raziel''s own motive behind his extracurricular activities. Before he could retreat back to his room, his attention was caught by the television, which Nevaeh had apparently left on before leaving the apartment¡ªtheir bedroom door was open and she was nowhere to be found.


    Some late night news coverage was on, and Cyrus had heard enough to just catch something about another priest being killed. Breath knocked from his lungs, he turned to the television just in time to see a photo leaked to the press that had been left at the crime scene.


    In the form of a newspaper obituary clipping, James Crocker''s headshot stared back at him. Beneath it, scrawled in sharpie, were the words REMEMBER ME?


    Oh, yes. One doesn''t forget their first.


    First Cyrus was hearing the reporter on the scene explain how police didn''t know quite what to make of it, then all he heard was the ringing in his ears reaching a crescendo and cancelling out all other sound. He ended up on his knees, staring blankly at nothing, a memory taking hold of him: the feeling of power rushing through his veins, liquid divinity, the feeling of being almighty...


    Someone was setting him up. This thought took some time coming to him; after all, not many people knew about Cyrus''s true past, and he couldn''t imagine anyone who did being able to pull off such a horrendous crime just to rub that in his face. It just didn''t make sense. He could only imagine what had been out there watching him before he ever knew just how big the world truly was, though, couldn''t dismiss the idea more things had come for him.


    Like the reaper that had confronted them almost a week before. That was no coincidence.


    When Cyrus gained some awareness again, he found himself in bed. Raziel was watching him from the doorway with weary eyes.


    "I don''t know what this means, kid," he admitted, running a hand over his forehead. "But someone''s obviously trying to get your attention, so the best you can do is ignore it."


    Ignore¡ªignore the fact someone was out there, mimicking his old kills and what, trying to set him up? How the hell was Cyrus supposed to do that?


    Raziel shook his head. "Figure it out," he muttered and shut the door. Moments later, Cyrus heard the clink of bottles knocking together coming from the kitchen.


    He curled in on himself, hands already beginning to shake. The memory of his first kill was on the forefront of his mind now, awakening the voices in his head that had finally quieted. Tears dampening a wide circle of the pillow beneath his face, gluing it to his skin, Cyrus somehow was able to fall asleep.


    ¡ì


    Neither Raziel nor Cyrus did much speaking the following day, and the former was apparently finally taking a break from all the running around. The demon started the morning off with a mug half-filled with coffee, the other part liquor, even allowing Cyrus a drink from it.


    Cyrus would have been content to waste the day away in bed, but came to the bitter realization he had prior engagements. He spent half an hour readying himself¡ªsmoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt, staring at himself in the mirror like he could scare the bags under his eyes away¡ªbefore it was time to leave. Being around normal people seemed to be just about the worst idea right about then, but the one thing that kept his resolve firm was the fact that he''d told Tuesday he would do this.


    He intended to keep his word.


    He really did, and made enough effort to get all the way to her house in Queens. Then Cyrus found himself looking in the kitchen window where the curtains were drawn this time, revealing a painfully mundane scene. Tuesday, her aunt, and three other teens he''d never seen all crowded around a birthday cake. He could just make out as Tuesday blew out the candles and the girl beside her wrapped an arm around her.


    Cyrus turned away before they could notice him and hurried down the sidewalk again, drawing the strings of his hoodie tight, hiding his face.


    Maybe he had made a promise to her. Maybe he was making a mistake. But he didn''t belong there.


    He didn''t really belong much of anywhere. Cyrus had always been on the outside looking in, and he had been a fool to ever think differently.

 14 § Out of the Fire

    Cyrus couldn''t avoid the consequences of his choice forever. In fact, Raziel only managed to watch the signs of relapse¡ªtremors, increasingly violent thoughts¡ªfor three days before insisting they make another visit to Mary.


    And, of course, that meant Tuesday as well.


    When Cyrus suggested they try Mary during the day when Tuesday would be at school, Raziel reminded him of what he already knew: Mary worked the night shift and would be asleep. Waking a tired witch probably had the same success rate as poking a bear with a sharp stick.


    There was no use in arguing. The alternative was far worse and Cyrus had no desire to turn back into a crazed killer. The news segment involving the photo with Crocker and the message that could only have been meant for Cyrus had remained on his mind for days; it did his body no favors. His mind had seen better days, as well, both ones where it hadn''t been plagued by killing dreams and ones where it had¡ªbut it hadn''t hurt to have them.


    Mary was just as reluctant to help as the last time, but for the most part did so without verbal protest. Halfway through the smudging, Tuesday came downstairs and watched from the doorway, arms crossed. Cyrus imagined there was hellfire in her eyes to champion any demon''s, but refused to look that high and see.


    As Mary was wrapping up, Raziel began to pester her about their previous conversation.


    "Well, did you find anything?"


    "You do understand what an exorcism entails, yes?" Mary snapped back. "You take the darkness out of that boy, where do you think it goes?"


    Sighing sharply, Raziel turned away to peer out the window with narrowed eyes.


    Mary blew out the bundle of sage, the sudden cloud of smoke in Cyrus''s face his cue he could sit up. "Although, as much as I hate to admit it," she said quietly, pausing for a moment until Raziel turned back to face her. "You said it yourself. The kids help each other."


    From the doorway, Tuesday snorted. Cyrus finally gained the courage to look up at her only to see she was turned away now, shaking her head.


    Raziel and Mary exchanged a look before the former flashed a mischievous grin. "Yaknow, I''m new to this whole parenting thing but¡ªwhaddya say we lock those crazy kids in a room and force ''em to work out all their angst?"


    Surprisingly, despite her eternal hatred for the demon, Mary laughed. The humor quickly drained from her expression and was replaced by pinched lips, downturned eyebrows. "My girl did nothing wrong."


    Raziel mirrored the grimace she was giving him. "Oh, but the boy did? You do realize we have bigger issues on our hands than a silly birthday party and some hurt feelings?"


    Before the embarrassment of the two taking on parental roles and bickering over him could set in too deep for Cyrus, Tuesday suddenly whirled around. She wrinkled her nose, glaring at Raziel like he was just a dog that had left a less than pleasant surprise at her feet. "Don''t think I won''t stab you again," she said cooly before spinning on her heel and leaving the kitchen. Seconds later, the front door slammed hard enough to cause the little potted plants along the windowsill to rattle.


    Mary laughed again, her humor just as short-lived¡ªshe quickly turned semi-aggressive, mostly pensive stare on Cyrus. "Maybe you''re under the impression you''re in the clear, but I assure you I''ll deliver you to hell myself if you don''t apologize to her right now."


    Cyrus reluctantly got to his feet, halfway to the door when Mary spoke again.


    "And make it a damn good one."


    The sounds of her and Raziel resuming a hushed conversation came back to him, but Cyrus couldn''t make out what they were saying before he was outside and totally out of earshot. Tuesday was pacing the yard, angry breaths materializing frequently on the air to the point it seemed she was hyperventilating. She didn''t initially look at him as he tred across the yard towards her.


    "One thing, Cyrus, I asked you for one thing!"


    "Have you seen the news recently?" he responded weakly.


    "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"


    Cyrus waited until most of the redness left her face and the anxious energy subdued just a little. When Tuesday stared at him with dull resignation, he suggested she look it up. He didn''t bother telling her what to look for; it was still in the headlines and would be hard to miss.


    Muttering under her breath, Tuesday pulled out her phone and tapped at the screen for a minute. Cyrus knew when she found the right article judging by how her eyes widened and her breaths stopped making little puffs of fog in the frosty air. Raising one hand to cover her mouth, she met Cyrus''s eyes.


    "What¡ªthe hell¡ªdoes that mean?"


    Cyrus couldn''t help but sigh as a brief wave of relief washed over him; he''d been half-afraid she would suspect him of the crime. It seemed even in anger her loyalties remained solid. Come hell or high water, she was unshakeable.


    He shrugged, muttering, "Someone wants to get my attention."


    "Well, mission accomplished. But what''s going to happen next?"


    Cyrus had no answer.


    "This shit''s never gonna end, is it?" Tuesday said flatly. She sighed, kicking at the ground so hard little clumps of soil went flying. "Here I was starting to think we could finally have normal lives."This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    "We?" Cyrus hadn''t meant to say it aloud, but through the haze clouding his mind and judgement it slipped out. At Tuesday''s confusion, he felt compelled to continue, feeling too far deep in everything to back out now. "What makes you think ''we'' can have anything?"


    "Excuse me?" Tuesday took a few steps closer, fuming again. "Have you forgotten what I''ve done for you?


    "I kept your secrets," she said, voice rising into a hoarse shout. "I fucking helped¡ª" When Cyrus gained the good sense to retreat, she was already upon him, placing her hands on his chest and shoving with all her might. He stumbled and fell back into the snow. "¡ªyou kill," she finished, breaths coming in gasps as she glared down at him.


    He thought he was being supportive, in his own way, doing the right thing by trying to show her staying away was the safest option. As long as Cyrus''s life clashed with hers, she would never obtain normal. He had no idea how to express this, that much made obvious by Tuesday''s reaction to his next words. "I saw you that night, on your birthday. I did come here, but I saw you with¡ªthem¡ªand knew there was no point to going inside."


    Shaking, Tuesday spat, "Are you jealous?"


    Cyrus blinked, looking up at her in confusion. No, that wasn''t right. That made no sense; what did he have to be jealous about?


    Of course he knew the answer. The normalness she so easily fell back into, the sense of community she had¡ªand that girl''s arm around her. Maybe Cyrus was human enough now to understand exactly what he had to be jealous of.


    "I think you need a reality check," Tuesday continued in an icy tone. "You''re the one who drove me out."


    Images of blood clashing with the reality standing before him, Cyrus took the whole "seeing red" thing a few steps too far. Glancing down, unable to look at Tuesday without thinking of the hundred ways he could tear her apart, he saw the angry heat coursing through his body had manifested outward. The snow beneath him had melted, leaving a patch of soggy grass with a diameter of a few feet all around him.


    This would be the time to get away, calm down, do anything smart.


    Cyrus hadn''t made a smart decision in a long time, though.


    "Sometimes I wish I had killed you," he said monotonously. "It would have made my life a lot simpler."


    The anger drained from Tuesday''s face. She stumbled a few feet back, finally regarding him for what he was¡ªa monster.


    Nothing had changed, but finally, she saw the truth.


    Whatever she tried to say, she choked on the words. Lower lip wobbling, tears glistening in her eyes, Tuesday stared at him frozen for just one moment before dashing past him. She made it to the porch just as the front door opened. Coming to investigate the commotion just a little too late, Raziel didn''t have time to move out of the way before Tuesday crashed into him. She picked herself back up in one fluid motion and disappeared into the house as if nothing had happened.


    Raziel stalked over to Cyrus''s place on the ground. "Uh, kid, what the hell happened?"


    "I need a drink," Cyrus responded, not moving from the ground, glaring at his clenched hands.


    "You''re hitting this mid-life crisis a bit early, don''t you think?"


    Despite the comment, Raziel went silent on their trip back and once home, immediately brought out a bottle from the bar and set a glass on the counter. "Who would have thought I''d be serving you," he muttered. "Consider this a one time kinda thing, I''m much more content getting paid for this."


    Cyrus downed the drink immediately, ignoring the fire it set in his throat, stifling the cough that scraped up it. Snorting, Raziel refilled the glass before coming around to join Cyrus on the bar stool beside him. Not bothering to get his own glass, Raziel tipped the bottle back and took a drink straight from the source. He sighed quietly, leaving one elbow on the counter to half-twist in Cyrus''s direction, eyeing him up and down.


    "Ever feel like your fate''s inevitable," Cyrus mused, spinning the glass in circles just to occupy his shaky hands, "and there''s no use in fighting it?"


    Raziel laughed softly, taking another swig. "I already told ya, kid, I''m tired¡ªwhy do you think that is?" He rubbed the label on the bottle absently, studying it for a minute before speaking again. "Considering how easy Ach fell, my money''s on that he was, too. Tired."


    Cyrus automatically stiffened at the mention of that name. He shut his eyes but what he saw in the darkness they provided was much worse.


    Sounding more like he was talking to himself now, Raziel continued, "Wonder what that will be like, dying."


    Cyrus couldn''t imagine anything bringing him down. At this thought, Raziel shook his head slowly, closing his own eyes.


    "That''s where you''re wrong," he said quietly, peacefully, surely. "My day will come. Could be a year, could be a couple eons...but it''ll come.


    "But the question is how. Will I cease to exist, or..." Raziel shot a quick glance at him, one so unnerving Cyrus had to look away. "...somehow live on? What a condemnation that would be," he said with a visible shudder, "living on in the likes of you."


    Cyrus was beginning to doubt his abilities as a bartender. He didn''t imagine many patrons would come back to hear such pleasant conversation.


    The front door opened with a soft click, high heels tapping along the floor announcing Nevaeh'' entrance before she appeared around the corner. She took in the sight of them at the bar with raised eyebrows.


    "Rough day?"


    "Trouble in paradise," Raziel said sarcastically. He rose from his seat, stowing the bottle away again and shrugging on a jacket. "My shift starts in thirty. Can you keep an eye on Romeo over there?" Dropping his voice, he added, "I don''t think he should be alone."


    "I can hear you," Cyrus muttered around another sip of liquor.


    Without responding, Raziel slipped out and left him alone with Nevaeh. After a moment she strode over to take Raziel''s place beside him.


    "Girl trouble, huh?" she inquired with a playful grin. When Cyrus didn''t respond, she lightly kicked his foot with her own under the counter. "C''mon now, we''re stuck with each other¡ªmight as well make the most of it. I''m a girl too, you know, maybe I can help put some things into perspective."


    The smile of a seasoned seductress leered back at him, and Cyrus''s first reaction was to make up some excuse to leave...but maybe it was time Cyrus get a little open-minded. People had been judging him¡ªright or wrong¡ªwithout actually knowing him his whole life. He of all people should see the injustice in that.


    Shifting on the stool, Cyrus let his next sip sit in his mouth for a moment, savoring the burn. Then he slowly narrated the fight.


    Nevaeh remained quiet for a minute, tapping her fingers on the counter and staring off into space. Then she gave a light shrug. "That''s a shame she can''t accept you for what you are. To me, it sounds like she''s deflecting...trying to hide from who she truly is."


    "That''s not the point," Cyrus muttered, regretting saying anything.


    "Then what''s the point, Cyrus?" Nevaeh placed a hand on his arm and he resisted jerking his own back. "Forget all the complicated stuff, pretend for just a moment you don''t have all that baggage¡ªwhat do you want?"


    "Her." The answer was simple, but whatever implications hid behind it Cyrus didn''t know. "But I screwed up. She hates me now." She''s going to go running back to her normal, human friends now, he couldn''t help but think.


    Nevaeh sighed, retracting her hand finally and propping it under her chin. "Don''t be so sure. You don''t know what the future holds."


    Cyrus couldn''t believe her. He knew she was trying to be nice and consoling, probably for Raziel''s sake¡ªbut it just wasn''t true.


    He and Tuesday were far too different. That had never changed, no matter what Cyrus thought he knew about her.


    Mumbling an assent, he drained his drink and stumbled off to his room to sulk.

 15 § These Lonesome Bones

    Mary allowed her niece to spend the entirety of the weekend hiding under her covers but come Monday, she put her foot down.


    "You''re not wasting the privilege of an education over some boy," Mary insisted, pulling the sheets away that morning and forcing Tuesday to get out of bed. To prolong the coming school day as long as possible and also avoid an inevitable internal monologue, Tuesday checked her phone for the first time in days to see half a dozen notifications from Jordan and even a handful from her other friends. Each one grew increasingly concerned in tone as more time passed without a response.


    Tuesday sighed and stowed the phone out of sight again. She''d see them at school, and then they''d see she was okay--well, alive--and hopefully stop worrying. Of course it wasn''t that simple. At lunch Jordan tracked her down in the library where Tuesday had hidden behind the stacks, nose buried deep in a book she wasn''t truly reading. Each time she finished scanning a page, she couldn''t remember what she''d just read and would have to start again.


    Staying silent at first, Jordan settled in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs opposite from her. Tuesday didn''t look up, focusing so hard on the page in front of her that the lines began to blur. She blinked and realized tears had started prick at her eyes; she rubbed at them hard enough to make her face sore.


    "If you don''t wanna talk, that''s cool," Jordan finally said. "But at least tell me I don''t need to worry about you."


    Tuesday forced herself to meet her eyes but immediately had to look away again, wilting under the intensity in the other girl''s stare.


    "It''s okay to be sad, but...if you''re sad enough to do something stupid, please be real with me here."


    Tuesday looked up again, not expecting the conversation to veer in that direction. She opened and shut her mouth, debating on a response before finally saying, "It''s not like that."


    "Then what is it like?"


    "I''m just disappointed, I guess," Tuesday said softly, setting the book aside and wrapping her arms around herself. "You think you know somebody...No, that isn''t right. I''ve always known what he is but I also thought he could be more than that."


    "You mean that friend of yours," Jordan clarified just above a whisper. Tuesday nodded, counting the lines in the wooden table just to be a little less aware of the hole expanding in her chest.


    Every time she let Cyrus in, he blasted her apart.


    And now here she was, blabbing about her stupid problems to someone who didn''t even know the full extent of the story, the sins she herself was guilty of. Face heating up, Tuesday pushed back from the table and slowly walked out of the library, Jordan in tow.


    "Some people just don''t get it," Jordan was saying. "They genuinely don''t see when they''re fucking up, but that isn''t on you."


    A part of Tuesday was beyond grateful for her support, but a bigger part of her just wanted to be alone. Whatever the other girl said next, she didn''t really hear it, and then the bell rang and forced them to part. The rest of the day was a blur, nothing significant enough to crack the careful shield Tuesday had raised between her and the world.


    The next day when she didn''t get up in the morning, Mary let her stay in bed for a few extra hours. Then, in pajamas and eyes bloodshot--she''d normally be fast asleep by now--Mary came in and perched on the end of Tuesday''s bed.


    "Damn them," Mary muttered. "That boy''s energy was just too much, I never should have let him back in."


    Tuesday mumbled into her pillow, "That''s not the problem."


    After a pause, Mary responded with a hint of nostalgia in her voice. "I know. Wouldn''t it be so much easier if it were, though?" She patted Tuesday''s back and added, "Burying yourself in these emotions will do you no favors. You need to be surrounded by good energy and things that are familiar--it''s time to go to school."


    Tuesday glanced at her phone and cursed under her breath. She''d been hoping more of the day had passed, it certainly had felt like it had, but it was nearly an hour before noon. Grudgingly she obeyed her aunt and got ready for school, movements mechanical as she brushed her teeth and clothed herself. It was easier to throw a hoodie on over yesterday''s clothes than putting on a new shirt, and that''s what she did.


    When she got to school, lunch was in session. She braved the cafeteria this time, craving the feeling she got around Jordan that made everything feel just a little easier to handle, but her spot at their usual table was empty.


    Chris and Layla looked up with wide eyes as she approached them. They greeted her with surprise in their voices.


    "Where''s Jordan?" Tuesday said after clearing her throat and sitting down across from them.


    Layla glanced at Chris with the hint of a smirk playing on her lips. "We kinda thought she was with you, y''know, ditching class."


    Tuesday blinked, toying with the apple in her hands she had no intention of eating. "Why would you think that?"


    "Well, neither of you ever miss school, and..." Layla trailed off with a shrug.


    Tuesday grimaced down at her shoes, trying to tamp down the feeling that something must be wrong. It was ridiculous. If she could miss some school, so could anyone else.


    The real red flag was when Jordan didn''t answer her text. That wasn''t right, not after how she''d lectured Tuesday about going radio silent.


    The rest of the day, it was hard to breathe with the constant tightness in her chest and how her heart seemed hellbent on breaking free, knocking insistently upon her ribcage. Halfway through her walk home, her phone began to buzz; Tuesday answered it on the first ring, breathless.


    "Jordan?"


    A voice she didn''t recognize, a much older woman, spoke on the other end. "No, this is her mother. Tuesday?"


    Words failing her, Tuesday nodded, and it took several seconds for her to realize that hadn''t been a visible answer. "I--yes."


    The voice was hoarse and thick with tears. "Jordan''s been asking for you but for the most part the painkillers have limited her lucid moments--"The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "What?"


    There was a pause and a sniffle. "She''s been--attacked." After another pause, the woman listed off the hospital and room number they could be found in and disconnected after a hurried goodbye.


    Her first thoughts went to Cyrus. The pain that ensued from accusing him, doubting him, well somehow that stung worse than when he''d said his last words to her. It didn''t make sense how protective she was of him--especially now. Still, something told her he wasn''t capable of this as she rushed to catch a train to cut her trip in half. He''d been trying to turn things around. He snapped and had said something terrible, something unforgivable...but that didn''t mean he had done this.


    Then Tuesday remembered the look on his face when she accused him of being jealous and began to rethink her loyalties.


    She might''ve appeared drunk to all the people she crashed into, stumbling in a daze on shaky legs, as she rose from the subway and jogged to the hospital. It was surreal entering the place; she''d never been in one, never had a reason to. Now the one person she wanted to see was there but it was the last place on earth Tuesday wanted her to be.


    Everything was bathed in white¡ªthe blinding strips of fluorescent lights overhead, the plain walls and unscuffed tile, doctor''s coats and a bed being wheeled by with an equally pale patient half hidden beneath a sheet. All of it made Tuesday''s blossoming headache even more pronounced and the strong smell of antiseptic did nothing to help matters. For a place where people were living the best and worst moments of their lives, it came off physically as a rather emotionless institution. She hurried past rooms from which screams and cries reverberated out from, the sounds sticking in her head and echoing there long after she found the pediatric wing. She didn''t know if there was truly a labyrinthine design at work or if her mind was so muddled from stress that it wasn''t working properly, but it took several minutes of searching to find the correct room.


    She tried once more in vain to take a deep, steady breath and rapped lightly on the shut door.


    After a moment in which Tuesday was ready to break it down herself, the door finally slid open. A woman with reddened eyes, tears flowing freely down her face, peered back at her. Behind her, a man with salt-and-pepper hair sticking up in tufts--like he''d been tugging on it anxiously--was standing, shoulders bent with grief.


    "We''ll just--" the woman said, a sob interrupting the words, "--give you two a minute." Jordan''s parents edged out into the hall, not venturing far from the room.


    Swallowing the bile that was straining to come up, Tuesday skirted past them and lightly shut the door before allowing herself to look up. She didn''t know how she''d react, didn''t know what she''d see, and didn''t want those people to watch.


    Jordan, pale as the sheet covering her except for a reddish bruise forming just under one eye, was lying still as a corpse in the hospital bed. Tuesday choked on tears, unable to shake her worries even as the nearby monitor showed a steady pulse. She crept closer, taking tiny steps, and Jordan''s eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light streaming in the window.


    It took a moment for them to focus on Tuesday, and she couldn''t read whatever emotions were in them. She took a seat on the edge of the bed, finding Jordan''s hand under the sheet and grasping it in her own. There was a faint trace of blood crusted under the nails.


    "What--happened?"


    Jordan''s eyes shut again. After a moment, she wordlessly peeled the sheet away from her body, revealing a ratty old hospital gown. With shaking fingers, she moved the fabric aside to uncover her abdomen.


    It took all the self-control in Tuesday''s body to keep her from launching back off the bed. The other girl''s once fair skin was covered in dozens of jagged lacerations, inflamed and held together by internal stitches. She had to quickly look away, covering her mouth and hoping she didn''t throw up right there, before forcing herself to turn back. It took several moments for Tuesday to make sense of the markings, to notice they weren''t random, senseless scratchings.


    Some kind of thin blade had carved the words TODAY WILL KNOW WHY deep into Jordan''s skin, each word having its own line, taking up the entirety of her midriff.


    In a shaky, slow voice, she said, "A man broke into my house early this morning." Jordan''s eyes strayed to the ceiling as she fumbled to cover herself again.


    Tuesday couldn''t respond. Every part of her had frozen solid, making her defenseless against the coming dread.


    "I didn''t understand it at first," Jordan continued, eyes tracing back down to her now-hidden wounds. "But you know what today is?"


    When Tuesday could breathe again, it came in as an antiseptic-scented gasp. She looked away from Jordan''s searching, pensive stare. She couldn''t get her mind under control, couldn''t keep up, couldn''t make sense of what was right in front of her.


    "It''s got to be a stupid coincidence, right? Tell me it''s a coincidence," Jordan said, and it almost sounded as if she were begging.


    When Tuesday did not respond, Jordan''s voice flattened.


    "He held me down and cut those words into me," she narrated with no emotion, "and recited a list of names. He wouldn''t leave until he was sure I memorized them."


    She began to list them off then, and to Tuesday''s increasing horror, she recognized every single one. Faces to go with the names wavered in her mind''s eye, pictures they''d sent and the foul chatlogs and the terror in their eyes when they realized they''d been tricked.


    "Stop," Tuesday begged, tears falling down her own face, causing her to sputter and choke on them.


    Jordan did not stop, not until reaching the end of the list. Staring hard at the opposite wall, she said, "Those men apparently all disappeared over the last few months. But," she added, finally looking back to Tuesday and the tears flowing freely now, "you somehow knew that already, didn''t you?"


    "I really don''t know what happened here," Tuesday tried to insist, but her breathing was ragged and her chest ached and she couldn''t slow down enough to speak properly.


    Voice now a whisper, Jordan said, "I don''t want to know whatever it is you''re involved in, and I won''t tell anyone as long as you leave me alone."


    "You''re not--you don''t mean that," Tuesday protested, beginning to hyperventilate. The room tilted and spun.


    "I never want to see you again," Jordan responded flatly. When Tuesday made no move to leave, Jordan''s voice rose in a grating shout. "Did you hear me? Get out!"


    Having enough self-awareness to realize history had a sick way of repeating itself, Tuesday stumbled out of the room and hurried past Jordan''s parents before they could berate her for upsetting their daughter. Outside, she fell to her knees in the snow, ignoring the looks passersby shot her.


    They didn''t matter. She was all alone in the world.


    She felt so shaky, so unhinged, that gravity could have malfunctioned and untethered her from the ground, casting her off somewhere far into the atmosphere where she''d never hurt anyone again. Because it was becoming blindingly clear she hurt everyone she cared about, even if it wasn''t her wielding the knife. Trouble followed her like a stray mutt, and the only way to stop a feral dog was to put it down.


    Not thinking about her actions, Tuesday pulled out her phone and scrolled through the call log down to the number she''d never entered into her contacts. Her tears fell and splattered onto the screen, and she had to stop several times to wipe it dry.


    The phone went to voicemail after several rings, some generic recording directing her to leave a message. She hung up and dialed again, and again, until it finally went through.


    "What in the hell do you want?"


    "Where is he?" Tuesday said back, not recognizing her own voice. Her vision was still wavering in and out and she fell back into a sitting position, not minding as the snow seeped into her clothes and melted there.


    "You seem to have forgotten your manners," Raziel responded, ignoring the question, Before he could continue, a wave of anger jolted through her.


    "He hurt my friend," Tuesday hissed. "So either tell me where the fuck you''re hiding him or I''ll--"


    "I am, uh, not totally sure what you''re getting at, but I suggest laying off the drugs. The kid''s been with me for days."


    Tuesday shook her head, hitting the side of it with one hand repeatedly until she could get her thoughts in order. "No, no, you''re wrong, and if you don''t help me I''ll tear the city apart until I find him--"


    "Oh, for fuck''s sake."


    The call cut off and Tuesday stared blankly at her phone, debating what to do.


    She didn''t have to ponder that for long. Just a minute later, the crowd on the nearby sidewalk parted for a man who was roughly pushing past them, narrowed eyes trained on Tuesday. He''d never hurt her before--he''d saved her life, even--but something in his expression warned he was on the moral edge, close to


    "How--how did you--" her brain seemed to be working exceptionally slowly, because of course she knew how he''d gotten there so fast. She''d seen him disappear into thin air before. She shook her head like it would dispel the slowness then glared up at the demon. "We need to talk."

 16 § All Good Things

    Cyrus hadn''t left his room for more than a few moments at a time in days. He couldn''t stop replaying the last time he''d seen Tuesday in his mind, forcing himself to relive the moment over and over.


    He hadn''t realized how much it would hurt her. To Cyrus, it was just a simple fact: if he had caved to his baser instincts one of those first times reconnecting with her, his life would never have gone so far off the rails.


    Raziel had quickly gotten sick of the long self-pitying session and for the most part left Cyrus to his own devices. Nevaeh had seemed a bit more sympathetic; when Cyrus braved the kitchen for just a few seconds to get a drink of water, she''d stopped him, smiled, and said, "Blue isn''t your color. Cheer up, who knows--things may change for the better very soon."


    He had a very hard time believing that.


    Evening had come, darkening the sky outside his window at which he sat for most of the day, when he heard a sudden thud from the other room. Cyrus crept out, peering around the corner tentatively--


    --and saw Tuesday and Raziel.


    Cyrus''s chest tightened, a strange mixture of shock, confusion and relief coming over him. He stayed out of view for a moment, watching Tuesday rise shakily from the ground. She wobbled for a second before careening to the side, catching herself on the counter and placing another hand to her head.


    "Put your head between your knees, you''ll be fine," Raziel was grumbling.


    With a low groan she slipped back to the floor and obeyed, rocking herself gently.


    Raziel caught Cyrus''s eye and beckoned him forward with annoyance in his eyes. "Right, yes, why don''t you come talk some sense into her?"


    Tuesday visibly stiffened but did not look up at Cyrus''s approach.


    "Your on-again off-again psycho girlfriend has resorted to totally ignoring her already dysfunctional moral compass," Raziel continued. "You know what she asked me to do?"


    He paused for effect, and Cyrus had to bite back the string of curses that rose to his tongue. If there were any worse of a time to have to deal with the demon''s unfortunate personality, it was now.


    "She wanted to become like me," Raziel continued with a humorless laugh and his tone grew colder with each word. "And when I explained as politely as possible that isn''t how it works--she decided becoming a reaper was the next best thing."


    Feeling like the floor had dropped right out from under him, Cyrus glanced back to Tuesday, who had still not moved from her huddle on the floor. It was so far out of left field Cyrus couldn''t make sense of the information--and then he remembered the dreams that had been plaguing him since the night on the beach.


    Something had changed then. Something he himself had put in motion the second he decided to live.


    Obsessing over the black-eyed girl from his nightmares, Cyrus turned to Raziel, a thousand things he wanted to shout grappling for his attention.


    ''''Relax! I would never damn a child," Raziel said sourly. "Like I said, you need to talk some sense into her, stat."


    At some point Cyrus hadn''t noticed, Nevaeh had silently entered the room, spectating the scene with crossed arms. He noticed her when Raziel''s eyes trailed from him to the hall behind him. Nevaeh glanced at Cyrus and said in a voice as sharp as he''d ever heard it, "Why don''t you go to your room? The adults need to have a talk." Her eyes slid back to Raziel, who squinted at her with confusion evident in his own.


    A shudder wracked Cyrus''s body. Attempting to hide his sudden wariness, he hurried over to Tuesday. Ignoring the way she flinched at his touch, he grabbed her arm and lifted her to her feet, tugging her down the hall.


    She swatted at his hands but he only let go when the bedroom door was shut. Hatred warred with grief in her eyes, and the latter won when tears began to spill over and drip down her cheeks. "He says you didn''t do it. Please tell me that''s true."


    "Do what?" Cyrus asked slowly, not liking the implications of all of it--her accusation, her desire to suddenly become something unearthly.


    Tuesday sighed, sagging against the door, apparently believing him. Cyrus didn''t have enough time to feel any relief at this. Sucking in a deep breath, she relayed a gruesome recap of her day so quickly Cyrus almost couldn''t keep up. When she was done, Cyrus sank to the floor, the shock making his limbs go numb.


    "Do you think...do you think he did it?" Tuesday suddenly said, jerking her head at the door.


    "Raziel isn''t a killer," Cyrus quickly responded.


    She looked unsure at this. "What other man knows what we''ve done?"


    Cyrus had no answer for this. It was yet another mystery he couldn''t wrap his head around. First someone was taunting him with his old kills, but now--now they''d crossed a true line. Now they had found Tuesday''s own weak spot.


    He was still stuck on the whole reaper thing, as well, even if his dreams had predicted it for a while now. Anger bubbling up, Cyrus asked what had possessed her to do such a thing, why she''d want to be one of the very things that had murdered her own mother in cold blood.


    "Oh, maybe because your friendly neighborhood demon won''t be around the next time to save the day?" she spat.


    "Next time?"


    Mouth curving downwards, Tuesday shook her head slowly and said simply, "With you, Cyrus, there will always be a next time."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    He flinched back at that, looking away and clenching his fists. Well, it was fair, he supposed. It was true.


    "I can''t be vulnerable anymore," Tuesday continued, voice quivering. "What about when something like this happens again, what happens when something comes for my aunt next? And not having a conscience, well, that sounds like a bonus right about now."


    Still unable to look at her, Cyrus stared at the floor. "You know you''d have to kill to sustain yourself, right?"


    Her response was immediate, cold. "Nothing I haven''t done before."


    "This--this isn''t you," Cyrus protested.


    "Maybe you don''t really know me, ever think of that?"


    In the other room, what had started as indiscernible whispers had risen into angry shouts that Cyrus could now understand. Now distracted from his personal conflict, he padded to the door to get closer to whatever fight was ensuing outside.


    "You said it yourself," Nevaeh was saying, "they''re stronger together, but the girl--she is nowhere near her full potential. If you can''t do it, maybe I''ll just turn her myself."


    "Where the hell is this coming from?"


    "Can you really not guess? When you said Cyrus survived, well, I thought it was obvious what you should do with him. And yet, here you''ve been playing Daddy Day Care--you can''t domesticate the antichrist, it''s unnatural!"


    The shouting cut off for a moment as the breath was knocked from Cyrus''s lungs. Having the same realization, now speaking at normal volume he was just able to hear Raziel say, "That sounds familiar."


    Cyrus had briefly forgotten Tuesday''s presence, but she now joined him at the door, eyes wide. "What''s going on?" she whispered, but he just shook his head and raised a finger to his lips. He slowly eased the door open when the voices became too hushed to hear again.


    "--did you create that reaper?" Raziel was saying, voice dangerously devoid of emotion. It stopped Cyrus in his tracks as he remembered the encounter, another piece of the fucked-up puzzle he couldn''t quite put together. Coincidence was for fiction, he knew that well, which only left all the events of the past few weeks being connected--the killings, the messages, even that visit from the reaper.


    Seeing Cyrus, Nevaeh turned her attention to him and tried her luck with him. "You two are a package deal, I had to remind you," she said in a pleading tone.


    Cyrus''s anger had reached a boiling point as the pieces fell into place; he took another step forward, not knowing exactly what he planned to do just yet but certainly nothing good, when Raziel raised a hand in the air. His back was to Cyrus and didn''t acknowledge him in any way, but Cyrus found himself suddenly unable to move. He fought against the compulsion but his power had seen better days; now he was numbed up and helpless.


    "That reaper--is he behind the priest murders?" Raziel pressed.


    Nevaeh''s lips curved down disapprovingly. "Well, yes but--"


    "Whose side are you on?"


    "Don''t you understand? I did this for you! If everyone knew you were able to control him, we''d never have to hide again."


    "I do not want this," Raziel said quietly, coldly. "And I think it''s time you leave."


    Nevaeh took a step back like he''d just hit her. She struggled for words for a moment, genuine shock in her eyes, before carefully smoothing out her expression. "Oh, don''t be like that," she purred, stepping closer. "This is all just a lot of information too fast, have a drink with me and we can talk it over--"


    "Get out."


    Her poker face slipping again, Nevaeh bit her lip, her devastated expression almost making her seem human.


    "If you ever change your mind...I''ll be waiting."


    Raziel did not respond, half-turning away from her. Now able to see his face, Cyrus noted the pain in his eyes--he''d never seen the demon look so vulnerable.


    Nevaeh crossed the rest of the space between them, placing a gentle kiss on Raziel''s unresponsive lips; he stared straight ahead, unmoving, until she finally pulled away with a sigh and went for the door. She gave him one long, last look--and then she was gone.


    What the hell was Raziel thinking? They couldn''t let her go--not after what she''d done, not considering what she might do--


    Raziel raised his hand again, lip curling, voice turning acidic. "Don''t you get it? This will never end, there will always be new evil vying for the crown." He dropped the hand, narrowed eyes passing slowly over Cyrus and Tuesday, who had crept up behind him. "There''s been enough death. You of all people know that," he added wearily, then walked over to the bar, pulling a bottle out from under the counter.


    Finding his voice, Cyrus began to protest, "But she--"


    "Please, just...stop talking," Raziel murmured, sinking heavily onto a bar stool, clutching the bottle tightly. He uncapped it with trembling fingers, spilling some of the amber liquid on the counter as he attempted to pour it into a glass. When he raised it to his mouth, his hand was shaking so violently around it that the drink sloshed and some of it ended up spattering his shirt.


    "Did you ever think," he said idly, staring into the glass, "that maybe it isn''t all about you and what you want?"


    Cyrus spared a glance beside himself where Tuesday didn''t seem any more swayed by the speech. There was still some confusion in her eyes but anger had filled them, as well; she had understood enough to know letting Nevaeh go was far from a smart decision.


    Raziel was not done. "That maybe, in a couple millennia when you''re long dead and perhaps I''m not, it won''t be your name and story they tell around the campfire?" He let out an eerie, hollow laugh that turned into a choking sound as whatever composure Raziel had left broke. He covered his mouth just in time to smother a faint sob. After a moment, he continued, "I''ve deluded myself into thinking I was helping, but I''m no better than Acheron--I''m still playing God with you, but I can''t shape you in my desired image. We''ve reached the end of the line, kid...I don''t want to sacrifice anything else."


    Too much was happening too fast, making Cyrus''s head spin. He walked over to the bar on shaky legs, forcing Raziel to look at him--maybe Cyrus could change his mind. He had to do something, anything; he needed Raziel, and not just because he had saved his life on multiple occasions or taken him under his wing for a brief respite.


    Losing Acheron had been complicated, but now Cyrus was losing someone who had genuinely cared for him--he knew it was true. It didn''t matter how many times Raziel insisted he was just trying to right his own wrongs.


    But the resolve in his eyes did not waver.


    "What--what am I supposed to do?" Cyrus muttered, looking at the ground now.


    "You have to figure that out for yourself. I can''t tell you how to live your life. Go get wasted in a ditch and die or something, I have no way of stopping you--and if you end up destroying the world instead, or someone destroys you, well..." Raziel sighed heavily, cradling his head in his hands. "My advice? Get the hell outta New York. Keep numbing that aura of yours until it''s under control, hope no one catches your scent quite so easily...and live."


    "And what about you?"


    "I''m beginning to think power is overrated. I don''t want this city." Raziel absently stirred a finger in his drink, chewing hard on his lip. "Don''t bother coming back to this place, I can''t stay here. Not now--"


    Raziel raised his head an inch, eyes going to the end of the hall where his bedroom door was open. He winced and closed his eyes.


    "Maybe we''ll cross paths again," Raziel continued emotionlessly. "I hope, if that day comes, you''ll have your head on straight. There may come a day when your past comes a knocking...up to you if you answer that door."


    He fell silent for a moment, jaw working, forehead creasing. When Cyrus remained still and quiet, Raziel raised his voice to a snarl. "Get out of here, Cyrus."


    The sound of his own name coming from the demon was so foreign he stayed frozen for several more seconds until Raziel turned a fiery glare upon him. Debating only one moment longer, Cyrus lurched over to the door with Tuesday close behind.


    He gave his ex-mentor one last look--the sight sinking in his stomach and curdling there--before leaving and shutting the door softly behind him.

 17 § High Tide

    For a moment, Cyrus nearly crumbled under the realization he was back to square one: alone, damned and on the run from whatever would come for him next. For over a month he''d simply been prolonging the inevitable.


    Then Tuesday placed a light touch on his arm and tethered him back to reality. No, he wasn''t alone, even if he didn''t understand why--she''d been so furious with him not so long ago. Remembering how he''d considered her loyalty unshakeable, Cyrus realized it shouldn''t be surprising. Raziel had said it himself: this kind of thing...it always comes back.


    She was still hurt, Cyrus could see that in how her hand rested on him only briefly before dropping just as quickly; however, Tuesday was a thousand other things in that moment as well. Exhausted. Lamenting. Remorseful. He knew because he felt all those things too, and they warred within him until the emotions all blended together and he couldn''t tell the difference between them any longer. It was like when he''d nearly drowned--unable to tell up from down, rock bottom from shore. It was like he''d been driven out to sea on nothing but a tiny life raft filled with holes, and the both of them were going down together.


    They wandered silently, absently, until the sky was as black as an oil spill but it no longer appeared empty to Cyrus. It was a blank slate, waiting patiently for the morning to come, as it always would. A small part of him wondered if he should be afraid, if Nevaeh was still out there and would want to exact her rage upon them. A bigger part remembered the world was not as black and white as he once believed, and that she was in pain, too...but not everything in pain lashes out.


    Still, they couldn''t amble along forever. Eventually Tuesday had to acknowledge the nearly non-stop vibration of her phone and answer it. Cyrus could hear the panicked shouts of her aunt; Tuesday could barely get a word in but somehow managed to console her and promised she was coming home now. When Cyrus fell out of step, she glanced back at him with raised eyebrows.


    "I think this is where we say goodbye," he muttered, kicking stones that littered the street and sending them rolling away into the darkness.


    "Not yet," Tuesday responded. She was biting her lip but it still wobbled, hinting at the tears that were sure to come. "We both just lost someone. I''m not gonna lose you too, not now. Not yet."


    Beyond words, Cyrus could only nod and let her drag him along. He didn''t have enough energy left to care about Mary''s reaction when he once again showed up on her doorstep--but it ended up not mattering. She looked between him and her niece, and the state they were in must have been blindingly apparent because Mary opened the door wider and let them both in.


    "What happened?" Mary asked in a slightly unsteady voice, busying her nervous energy by whisking around the kitchen and readying a pitcher of tea.


    Tuesday didn''t bother masking the truth. This was, after all, the only other human they knew who could have possibly believed them. With an increasing level of horror, Mary listened; by the time Tuesday had finished, Mary''s hands were shaking too hard to continue her work and she sank heavily into one of the dining chairs.


    "I had no idea how far deep you were in," she said quietly, tears now sparkling in her own eyes. She glanced at Cyrus with no malice and added, "You poor children."


    Of course, Cyrus would have a feeling she wouldn''t be so kind if Tuesday had told the whole story, straight from the beginning, not just that night''s events. He was not in the place to argue though.


    Tuesday spared Cyrus, who had not spoken during the whole story, a nervous glance. "What can we do to fix his, y''know...situation?"


    Mary did not respond immediately, rubbing at the frown lines that had appeared on her forehead, cutting deep lines there. "The last time that demon," she finally said to Tuesday, tone souring on the word, "was here, we actually discussed that. You remember when he said you make him more human?" She gave a curt nod in Cyrus''s direction.


    Tuesday weakly nodded.


    "Well, it seems that happened to be more literal than any of us imagined."


    Tuesday and Cyrus exchanged a confused glance, neither of them in the mood to solve any more puzzles.


    "I hear you," Mary prompted, this time looking at Cyrus, "don''t have a soul."


    He felt Tuesday''s eyes on him but didn''t risk looking to see what emotions would be in them. It wasn''t a detail he''d ever explicitly revealed to her, he realized, but at the same time it paled in comparison to all the other terrible and strange things she knew about him.


    "Well, that isn''t completely accurate." Mary crossed her arms and rested them on the table, leaning forward. Cyrus was still shocked at the complete lack of hatred in her eyes. "Every moment you''ve spent with my niece, she''s been giving a little of it back to you."


    It was Cyrus''s turn to lean back, the force of his shock almost tangible. He didn''t understand how it could be true, but at the same time, it was nearly embarrassing how obvious it had been. The answer had been staring him right in the face the whole time. His newfound feelings, desire to redeem himself, even the fact that he''d never even close reached the potential Acheron seemed to envision for him. The soul was a safeguard for magic, the demon had told him, and maybe--just maybe--he really had gained a few pieces of himself back.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "I--" he took a moment to sort through the chaos this realization had brought him. "Does this mean..."


    Cyrus couldn''t finish the thought.


    "It means stick around long enough and you just might learn what normal is," Mary responded, an edge suddenly entering her tone. She sighed, looking back at her niece as she said, "I never wanted you two to be so close, but I can''t deny things may work themselves out in time. To heal from all this, I think you have to do it together."


    The three of them mulled this over for several minutes before Tuesday broke the silence with a yawn. Mary smiled softly. "You''ve had a long night. Why don''t you go to bed and we can continue this discussion tomorrow."


    Tuesday peeked over at Cyrus, mouth starting to open when Mary quickly interrupted.


    "Oh, absolutely not. I may not be your mother but this is just a universal rule of parenting: no boys allowed overnight."


    "He has nowhere to go," Tuesday protested, exhaustion giving way to anger.


    Mary worked her jaw, staring at Cyrus disapprovingly. "Fine, but one night, and he sleeps on the couch."


    Tuesday stood, crossing her arms. "He can take my bed, I''ll sleep on the floor."


    Mary laughed and Cyrus shrank back, intimidated by the squabble over him, thinking how ridiculous it was. He''d slept in much worse places.


    He tried to voice this when Tuesday shot him a look to silence him. "Great, so it''s settled," she said quickly before Mary could object, grabbing Cyrus''s hand and tugging him to her room.


    "Why--?"


    "I don''t want to sleep alone tonight," she muttered back, voice wavering. "I can''t."


    Cyrus didn''t feel the same way. He''d never not slept alone. Nonetheless, he wasn''t in the mood for a fight and let himself be pushed down on her bed--and Tuesday joined him there.


    "Aren''t you angry?" he whispered. He remained at the end in awkward perch, ready to rise if an opportunity allowed, but Tuesday wasted no time in getting comfortable and laying down.


    Eyeing him emotionlessly, she responded quietly, "I honestly don''t know. I don''t know what I want to do about you but...let''s save that for the morning." She propped herself up on one elbow, desperation entering her eyes. "Can we pretend, just for tonight, none of this happened?...I need this."


    Forcing himself to breathe even when it stung, Cyrus nodded quietly and joined her. He settled inches away, her presence washing over him until he couldn''t focus on anything else. He half-turned his head to see she was lying on her side now, hands folded as if in prayer beneath her head, hair spread out in a blonde halo around her.


    "What?"


    She gave a small shrug. "I''m just...thinking."


    Cyrus closed his eyes, falling deep into all the things he had to think about as well. After an immeasurable amount of time, he noticed her breaths had grown softer and evened out; when he looked at Tuesday, her eyes were shut and she''d come closer--her arm brushing his. Sighing in her sleep, she slung that arm across his chest and turned her face into it.


    He stiffened, his own arm half-raised and hovering over her, unsure what to do. For several moments he considered gently pushing her away again to her own side of the bed.


    Then he let his arm drop and curl around her, pulling her closer.


    Cyrus was powerless against all the memories that came flooding back at her touch: every time she''d made him question humanity and every time she''d helped him doubt it. Cyrus had witnessed her transformation from a little girl in pigtails to the preacher''s doting daughter and yet again to Lilith incarnate. Maybe Lucifer had fallen from grace for his hatred of humanity, but Cyrus had fallen for all the opposite reasons.


    But that only drove home the realization he had to leave.


    The plan yet another group of apparently well-meaning people were setting out for him would not work, not really, because no matter how much Tuesday could help him she was also his weakness. Holding her there in the dark and quiet for just that briefest moment in time, Cyrus realized he would rather bring about the destruction of a thousand strangers than ever hurt her again.


    He needed to handle his darkness himself or not all. Maybe for a while he had only been prolonging the inevitable, but the whole experience had finally given him a reason to try.


    When Cyrus was sure Tuesday was totally out, he slipped out from under her grasp and padded down the hall as quietly as he could manage. He''d almost made it to the door when he became aware of someone watching him. Cursing under his breath, he slowly turned into the kitchen where Mary was sitting in the darkness; he could just make her out from the faint light coming in through the window.


    She watched him emotionlessly before nodding once. Not knowing what to make of it, he nodded back and found the strength to move again. Cyrus left without looking back at the house; the briefest of pauses would crack his resolve.


    He would take Raziel''s advice and leave the city, but he wasn''t quite ready to put New York behind him--there was one more thing Cyrus wanted to do.


    He found himself back in the house he''d been raised in. It had long since stopped being a crime scene and was relatively easy to enter, taking the smallest effort on Cyrus''s part to break the lock--although he did notice the feat was not as simple as it would have been for him a month ago. Cyrus paused in the threshold, staring at the door and remembering the day he''d leaned up against it, waiting for the girl on the other side to leave.


    Maybe Raziel would prove to be right and his past would come knocking once again--he just couldn''t be sure yet if he''d be strong enough to open the door this time around. It wasn''t for Cyrus to decide.


    He finally forced himself to move on, taking his time to scan each part of the house, memories lighting up the darkness and playing in his mind''s eye like they were truly being projected upon those walls. There was the kitchen, where he''d learned Acheron''s true plans and every foundation that had slowly been cracking suddenly crumbled altogether; there was the den, home to hundreds of hours spent with the demon honing his skills and beliefs, with all the good it did him in the end. Cyrus drifted out of each room, surprised when no sense of attachment held him there. It didn''t even hurt, not like it should have.


    The place held no significance any longer. It was a skeleton of a home, held together by tears and blood and betrayal. Cyrus left it just as quickly as he''d come.


    Cyrus didn''t know what lay in wait for him outside the city limits. He didn''t know how far away would be far enough, or what he''d do when he got there; he had never been one for looking too far ahead. But he felt for once he knew what he was doing, that maybe he could get things right this time.


    He entered the subway and took the ride all the way to its end. With nothing left to do but walk until he''d come upon a reason to stop, Cyrus shouldered all his regret as dawn creeped her red-orange-pink fingers across the horizon and cleared the slate another time.

 EPILOGUE

    As if senior year weren''t hard enough, Tuesday Hale once again found herself playing the role of a pariah.


    Those last months were a new level of hell she''d never known. Passing by people she used to know, now no better than strangers, every day--it wasn''t easy baggage to shoulder. They avoided her like the plague and when Tuesday did catch brief glimpses of Jordan through the crowd, she always felt the regret deep in her core. Tuesday recognized a familiar look in the other girl''s eyes, something she wouldn''t have wished on anyone. Something that doesn''t go away even after months of therapy and the occasional bender--Tuesday would know.


    Things were certainly no easier when she had to do them alone.


    Mary had tried to explain the kind of healing Cyrus needed went beyond the spiritual or supernatural, and it was a path he could only take alone. It didn''t mean goodbye, not necessarily. If he found himself again, maybe they''d find each other somewhere down the line.


    Maybe wasn''t good enough for her. Not after everything. Her own feelings for him were permanently skewed, but the memory of him refused to die.


    For the first few weeks she considered going to the police. Guilt took everything from her--decent sleep, any sense of calm she could wish to have, hope for the future--and it threatened to drag her under. She would do anything to release the pressure, anything, even if that meant confessing her sins and throwing away the key.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    But no, living on the outside was the worst punishment of all. Out here she had the chance to build more bridges only to watch them, inevitably, burn, one after the other until she was left with just a pile of ashes and her own withered skeleton.


    Somehow Tuesday made it to graduation, something she never could have imagined happening. It remained such a shock that the weight of it didn''t truly set in until she was already walking across the stage.


    As she accepted the diploma, she froze in place, pinned there under the lights and the roar of a couple thousand classmates and all their eyes on her. In the haze of her mind she imagined all their stares as accusatory ones, angry ones--all but one, where her loving aunt waited in the middle of the crowd with a ready smile for her.


    It was enough to at least allow her to breathe. Tuesday began to turn, her moment in the spotlight over, and exit the stage when something else caught her eye.


    Beyond the bleachers, so far back in the stadium she couldn''t be sure she was seeing things correctly--couldn''t be sure it was who she thought it was--Tuesday saw a boy standing by the exit doors. The moment slowed and stumbled to a halt like this was all just a long and terrible show, and someone had paused the television--when in reality, the look they shared lasted only a second or two. Then Tuesday blinked, and whatever she thought she saw was once again gone.


    It was enough, whether it had been reality or a mirage, to allow some sense of peace to settle over her. The weight that had been hanging around her like a shroud lifted, and as Tuesday found her way back to her seat, she began to wonder just what her future could look like.


    Just because she''d started down one path headstrong and hell-bent didn''t mean all the other avenues had been roped off to her. Tuesday half-believed this, and knew as more time passed and all the scars riddling her began to fade time would make the concept even easier to swallow.