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—bus stations, down in the subway, anywhere else he could close his eyes no matter how briefly—but 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—one 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—"

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—ones 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.

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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—and 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—or 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—any answers— 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—or, 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—it 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."