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—and 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.

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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—a 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—you 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—Acheron's most respected followers. Only they had been given the privilege to witness the night's proceedings. "I–" 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–the 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."