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—" she waved one hand in Cyrus's direction— "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—enough 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—calming 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—the 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—

—but 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.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

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—so 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—their 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—ignore 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.

§

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—smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt, staring at himself in the mirror like he could scare the bags under his eyes away—before 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.