Cyrus regained his sense of hearing first. Voices wavered back to him as if he were underwater, but he could make them out nonetheless.

The first was low and tremulous. "What have you done to him?"

The second responded with a cold laughter. "I might ask you the same question." The voice paused, and returned with an underlying sharpness. "Tell me, what possessed you to come here? And what makes you think you're welcome?"

Tuesday didn't respond. Cyrus struggled, in a daze, to remember how to move. He became aware then of the feeling of something hard pressing into his back; his feet dangled off the surface, suspended in the air.

When Acheron spoke again, his voice was almost too quiet to hear. "Do you think it's a coincidence you feel connected?"

The thought of the demon and the girl in the same room shocked his system enough that Cyrus regained the ability to move. His eyes snapped open, and as the scene came into focus he saw he was lying on the dining room table.

Acheron was suddenly by his side, taking Cyrus's chin in his cold fingers and turning it to face him. "There you are. How do you feel?"

Cyrus focused on the heaviness in his limbs and how much effort it took to even lift his head. Sleepiness tugged at him, yearning to pull him back under.

"To be expected."

Cyrus remembered Tuesday's presence and glanced over to her, where she stood stiffly against the kitchen wall. Her eyes were wide, darting between him and the demon; he couldn't imagine what she must be thinking.

He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. Cyrus silently pressed at Acheron, waiting for him to elaborate. Then Cyrus saw Tuesday's undamaged hand and the memory sucker-punched him: he had healed her.

"Energy has to come from somewhere," Acheron explained to him. "Impressive trick you just pulled off, but it has its consequences."

Then he turned to Tuesday.

"Now would be the time for running and screaming," Acheron mused, but his voice was deadpan.

Cyrus attempted to lift his head again, and saw Tuesday's hands shaking. She clutched them behind her back, meeting Acheron's eyes. The fear was evident in her own, but she didn't look away.

Cyrus envied that.

He managed to sit up, though every muscle ached and he rather would have collapsed again. He tried, in vain, to speak.

What was there to even say?

Sure, he'd been planning on telling her moments before about what he was—but Cyrus hadn't planned on this, hadn't planned on Acheron being a part of that conversation. He stayed silent.

"You're not...human..." Tuesday spoke up in a meek voice. It felt like it should have been directed at Cyrus, but she was still staring at Acheron.

He laughed again, the sound raising the hair on Cyrus's arms. For him to be so disturbed by it, it was a wonder Tuesday was holding her ground so well; Cyrus couldn't stop marvelling at that.

Acheron walked towards her until he was inches away, bending down to mutter near her ear, "Careful, now. Wouldn't want anything happening to you like your friend Crocker."

He leaned away, and Cyrus had enough time to see Tuesday's face pale when the doorbell rang.

"Well," Acheron said smoothly, "that would be for you."

Tuesday stayed frozen in place.

"The police," he prompted, "may want a word with you." Acheron's eyes trailed down to her bloody garments.

"Fuck—" Tuesday's eyes darted back to Cyrus. She stared at him for several moments, mouth open, before exhaling sharply and leaving the kitchen. The front door open and shut.

"Why did you do that?" Cyrus asked, finally finding his voice.

All Acheron responded with was, "We have work to do. Get some rest, you'll need it," before sweeping out of the room.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

As much as Cyrus hated to give in, it was all too easy to obey. He slumped back against the table and closed his eyes, not bothering to try and crawl his way to his bedroom.

It was an uneasy, though dreamless, slumber.

When Cyrus awoke, the ache had left his limbs. He was able to swing his legs over the table and stand without falling. Taking this as a good sign, he poured himself a bowl of slightly stale cereal and turned over everything that had happened in his mind. It was a lot to process, to say the least, and a pulsing pain blossomed in his temples.

He heard a door open near the back of the house and heavy footsteps fall against the linoleum. Then Moloch was standing in the doorway. "Well, if it isn't the faith healer himself. Sure took you long enough to wake up." In response to Cyrus's raised eyebrows, he added, "You've been out for two days."

Cyrus let the spoon fall and clatter back into the bowl, staring open-mouthed at the reaper.

"Get dressed," Moloch continued. "Then come to the compound." He stalked back out the door without another word.

Cyrus did as he was told, throwing on a fresh pair of jeans and a button up shirt before heading into the cold. He didn't have a jacket, and the temperature had fallen enough to sting him even through the long sleeves of his shirt. When he reached the basement of the compound, the entire group had already assembled in a seated circle around Acheron. Moloch and Bune stood to the side, arms crossed, watching Cyrus enter with a strange excitement lighting up their black eyes.

Though no longer cold, Cyrus couldn't help but shiver.

He made a move to sit amongst the other members of Second Advent, but Acheron stopped him, raising his hand. Then, appraising the seated members with a warm smile, he said, "Many of you have had some restraints about Cyrus, that he doesn't belong. You would be right. He is not one of us."

Cyrus shrank back, but a hand appeared on his shoulder. He glanced to the side to see Moloch grinning down at him.

"He's something very different. Something you all have been waiting for. However, this is something better witnessed than described. Who here is willing to put some faith in him and see the miracles he is capable of?"

For several seconds, the only thing Cyrus heard was the hammering of his pulse. Then a timid hand rose, and Delilah White said quietly, "I will."

Acheron beckoned her to join him in the center of the room. As she rose and walked towards him, Cyrus attempted to shake Moloch's hand from his shoulder. The fingers only dug in deeper and he bent to whisper in Cyrus's ear, "Play nice, boy. Your reputation depends on it."

He stilled, though his muscles were still tensed to spring. With growing anxiety, Cyrus watched as the demon took Delilah by the shoulders, spinning her around to face the crowd. She met his eyes, giving him a tiny smile; the sight of it made Cyrus's chest tighten and his lungs began to burn as he held his breath.

Still holding one of the woman's shoulders, Acheron's free hand slipped into his suit and withdrew a familiar blade: Cyrus's. Before he could react, Acheron plunged the knife hilt-deep into the woman's gut.

With a startled gasp, Delilah looked down at the handle now protruding from her belly. Her hands covered Acheron's which stayed gripping the knife for several moments before he retracted his hand, and Delilah's knees buckled. She fell to the ground, blood now running through her fingers and dripping to the ground.

Moloch gave Cyrus a hard shove, sending him stumbling to the center of the room. For what felt like centuries, all he could do was stare down at the dying woman at his feet. He felt the stares of dozens of terrified people, plus one pissed off demon, on him; Cyrus couldn't calm the tangle of thoughts rushing through his head. He couldn't breathe, couldn't make himself focus on the task at hand.

He hadn't thought about healing Tuesday; it had seemed to come naturally. Now, now that Cyrus was being forced to do it like it was nothing more than a performance, he couldn't recall the stage directions. This was something he had not practiced or prepared for.

Delilah took in a shaky, wheezing breath. She coughed, and her lips became painted bright red; a thin trail of blood dripped down her chin to join the puddle growing on the ground.

Cyrus dropped to the ground beside her, sparing a glance up at Acheron who stood there as calmly as if he were simply waiting for the day's forecast. Cyrus placed his palms over the wound, blood gushing between his own fingers; when nothing happened, he squeezed his eyes shut until bright spots danced across his vision. He couldn't clear his head, though; he was much too keyed up.

The body underneath his wet fingers vanished, slumping fully to the ground. Cyrus's breaths came in gasps then; Delilah's were too shallow to hear. He tried to recall the feeling that had flowed through him when he healed Tuesday, will the tingling sensation to run over his skin again—but nothing happened.

With one final sigh, the body on the floor went totally still. Delilah's eyes were still open, staring at Cyrus but glassy and emotionless. He could feel when her soul left the body, but it brought him no pleasure; it wasn't his to take. He fell away from her, scrambling back before Bune and Moloch appeared, fisting hands in his shirt and lifting him off the ground. As they dragged Cyrus out, Acheron was reassuring the cacophony of shrill voices that had begun to rise over each other.

The reapers left Cyrus alone outside the cabin. He knelt down in the grass, tracing the blood on his hands.

When Acheron came for him, tears were glistening in Cyrus's eyes, threatening to spill over.

"That Hale girl's conscience is rubbing off on you," the demon noted in an emotionless voice, producing a black handkerchief from his suit and dabbing at the blood on his own hands. "Humanity," he scoffed, "is infectious. Dangerous."

Cyrus ignored the rant, glaring down at the ground. "I wasn't ready."

Devoid of pity, Acheron said back, "It is my job to push your limits, not coddle you."

When Cyrus didn't respond, Acheron audibly exhaled and muttered, "When you're ready to move past the parlor tricks, come find me."

Cyrus stayed in his crouch until the sun, which had been hanging in the pinnacle of the sky when he had first arrived, sunk into hiding. He simply sat there—crying silent tears, all the while thinking maybe his lack of normalcy was a blessing.

He didn't think he could handle these human emotions if they came on to him any stronger.