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—human. 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–"

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–"

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–"

Acheron's voice was practically a growl now.

"I took in something not even a mother could love–"

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.

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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—and 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—what 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.

§

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–what was stopping him now?–when 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—had 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—but 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—and 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—skeletal, red—and 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.