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.

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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."