Cyrus cursed aloud. Here he had just gotten back, and seemed to be walking the line with whether he was in Acheron's good graces—and now this. He was tempted to stay in bed, leave his unexpected—and unwelcome—guest to give up and leave. Then he imagined what would happen if she didn't leave, and his mentor found her...

Cyrus jumped out of bed.

When he passed Acheron's room, no light emanated from underneath the door. That meant nothing. For all Cyrus knew, the demon was waiting in the darkness, ready to do Lord knows what. He attempted to open the front door without letting the hinges squeak, for as much as that was worth.

Straight from the dreams that plagued Cyrus since childhood, a bloody Tuesday stood on his doorstep. She was silhouetted in the halo of pale light ebbing from the porch lamp; behind her, in stark contrast, darkness.

When she spoke, he expected her voice to quiver. Tuesday bit her lip and seemed to struggle with what to say, but her voice was strong and clear. "I—I didn't know where else to go."

Was she in shock? He couldn't procure any other explanation for her eerie calmness. Normal people weren't unfazed by murder.

They just couldn't be.

Of course, Cyrus mused, that meant the only place she could fathom belonging was with another killer. Neither of them addressed that particular elephant in the room.

Did that mean the score had been erased between them? Why else would she have felt comfortable enough to come to him?

He raked his eyes over the streaks of blood across her nightgown, dried to a rusty color staining the otherwise pristine white cotton. She had thrown a jacket on over it, but it didn't cover everything. With her bare skin exposed to the moonlight, she looked like a ghost. To add to her eerie appearance, Tuesday wasn't projecting her signature brightness—it was like a sheet had been thrown over it. It hadn't been extinguished, but the light that struggled to the surface was weaker.

And, to a small degree, Cyrus took credit for that. He knew the second he laid eyes on Pastor Hale the man was bad news, but it was no coincidence this happened then—after meeting Cyrus, and with how he'd showed up to church that morning. Cyrus had witnessed the whole ordeal, and if the other points were mere coincidence, the fact that Hale had mentioned him was not.

Still, her childlike innocence couldn't have lasted forever, and not everyone would have survived what she did. She'd done what she had to: kill. Maybe they weren't terribly different, after all; Cyrus had no interest in needless suffering. Each kill had a purpose.

"Did you call the police?" Cyrus whispered. There was a double meaning to his words, and he was sure she knew it.

"Why—" She glanced down at herself, at the visible bloodstains, and somehow paled even further. Tuesday shook her head slowly, and visibly swallowed. "Not yet," she replied quietly.

Wordlessly, Cyrus slipped outside and shut the door behind him with care. He sat down on the stoop, staring up at the starless sky, but felt Tuesday's eyes on him. She hesitated, then joined him.

His skin tingled from her proximity. Cyrus twisted his hands together, unsure what to do.

The memories ran through his head again, one in particular sticking out: how Tuesday had stabbed her father with a shard of glass. Cyrus didn't know why, but it wouldn't let go of his attention. It festered in the back of his mind, the idea he had seen something like that before. But where in the hell had that come from?

He was losing his fucking mind.

"Cyrus, I did something really bad," Tuesday whispered, shaking him out of this thoughts. He stiffened, but there was nothing he could really say. He doubted his acting skills, and how the hell could he explain knowing what had happened?

"But the worst part—" Tuesday continued, and the sound of her tears thickened her voice. She tripped over the words and stumbled to a halt, taking in a deep breath and pausing. "The worst part is I don't feel bad about it. Have you ever...felt like that?"

Cyrus flinched, daring a glance at her. She was watching him with wide eyes, caught-in-the-headlights eyes.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

I-know-you're-a-killer eyes.

But, strangely, Cyrus saw something in them that made him suspect the answer wouldn't matter. It wouldn't change anything, because Tuesday herself had changed.

He shook his head slowly.

She chewed on her lip, looking down at her bloodied nightgown. "I'm starting to think the world isn't as black and white as I thought." Tuesday met his eyes again, jaw setting. "And that means you're not all darkness."

The back-and-forth was enough to give Cyrus a headache; he wanted to be sure she meant this before deciding what to do with it. He rose from the porch, and she followed. As soon as she was standing, Cyrus cornered her, placing his hands on the wall to either side of Tuesday's head. She was trapped, pinned under his piercing gaze, faces a mere inch apart.

"And if you're wrong?" he asked darkly.

Tuesday didn't shake or wilt under his stare. She lifted her chin, staring right back at him. A storm was brewing in those grey eyes, a storm that could drown the whole world. Her nearness washed over him, begging him to break what little distance was left between them; Cyrus's eyes strayed to her throat, what he'd imagined slashing on countless occasions. He could do it now, so easily. Acheron would probably approve.

This thought pushed Cyrus back a few inches. He was beginning to wonder if the demon was worth pleasing. Forget all the plans that had been made for Cyrus—What did he want?

Tuesday responded matter-of-factly, "I'm not."

With a weary sigh, Cyrus pushed off the wall and turned his back on her. She wasn't done with him yet, though.

"Why did you do it? James—why did you—"

"You wouldn't believe me," he muttered under his breath, grimacing at the ground. A heaviness crept over him, and Cyrus could identify it: loneliness, as constricting as a shroud. It didn't matter if Tuesday was a league closer to being whatever the hell he was; she would never understand his need.

Cyrus began to dwell on the question. Why had he done it? Sure, it was the kind of thing he'd lusted over for years. But he'd had enough self control to hold himself back, as Acheron had shown him. Acheron had been the one to end his fast, as well. He said the words and Cyrus obeyed. He slit a man's throat because Acheron told him to.

Now he was a slave to his urges.

"Why the fuck did you do it, Cyrus?"

He turned then, meeting the fury in Tuesday's eyes. His own anger fizzled out immediately, the fire put out by storm still raging in those eyes. Cyrus glanced down to the cross still hanging from her neck and said, "If your Lord told you you had a mission, would you deny Him?"

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Tuesday tried several times to speak, but couldn't regain the ability until she'd ripped the chain from her neck. It snapped apart and the cross clattered to the ground. "Who said God has any part in this?"

Cyrus wished very strongly then that he could tell what she was thinking. Maybe the ability would come to him some day, but as far as he could tell, it was a demon thing. Specifically, a demon-Cyrus thing; he didn't know of anyone else's thoughts Acheron could read.

"Well, I'll tell you why I did it," Tuesday said, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "I did it because I wanted to."

She sank to the ground once again, huddling in on herself and showing the first true vulnerability since showing up.

The words came out in a rush. "I didn't have to kill him. I could have gotten away without killing him, my father didn't have to die—" Choking on the tears now flowing freely down her face, Tuesday looked up at him with glassy eyes. "It wasn't my choice to make. I shouldn't play God...but all I could think was, I couldn't let someone like him live. I couldn't let him hurt anyone else."

The words sunk somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, souring there. Cyrus couldn't look at her any longer. He glanced down at her hands, noticing the two-inch long gash in her right palm. The wound, surely from gripping the glass, had mostly dried and the blood crusted around the edges. In her nervousness, though, she'd rubbed it open again, and a fresh stream of red was trickling from the gash and down her wrist.

Cyrus knelt beside her and took her hand gently in his own. He didn't understand what was urging him then, but the action had felt right. The memory rewound itself—Tuesday, wielding the shard of glass like a knife—and it wouldn't let him go. The familiarity of it nearly stole his breath; his whole body felt like it had been doused in gasoline and set on fire. Cyrus screwed his eyes shut, and opened them again when he heard Tuesday gasp.

She was staring at their hands. He followed her gaze, not understanding her shock—not at first. Cyrus's eyes traced over the wound again, and saw the fresh blood had already stopped flowing. The remnants of it were still wet against Tuesday's skin, but when he wiped it away, no new blood bubbled up to replace it.

As Cyrus stared at the gash, he could swear it was growing smaller with each passing second. The dramatic redness surrounding it decreased in depth, the skin around the wound retaining its previous healthy color.

"How—how did you—" Tuesday stuttered. By then, the gash had come to resemble just a thin scar.

Cyrus bounced back to his feet, feeling the urge to bolt.

He didn't want to run anymore.

"There's something I should tell you—" Cyrus began, voice as strong and confident as he'd ever heard it. It was time, he felt; he could feel it in every molecule of his being. It was time to unburden his secret, and if after all of that she thought he was a freak—well, at least he'd finally know.

Cyrus never finished his sentence. A heaviness was spreading through his body, making each limb feel more like a sack of bricks. He had enough alertness left to see the fear enter Tuesday's expression.

Then his legs gave out beneath him. Darkness overtook him before his head struck the pavement.