Sometime during his self-pity session, Cyrus began to dwell on how easily Acheron had let a member of his congregation die. Sure, he couldn't have known that Cyrus wouldn't pull through--but why take the risk?

Then Cyrus remembered another recruit Acheron had seemed eager to forget: Janice.

With all that been happening, Cyrus had given the woman no thought since her disappearance. Now she front-and-center in his mind: the one that got away.

The only one that had gotten away.

Cyrus recalled how roughly he'd been roused from his sleep to be accused of her murder; Acheron's suspicion of him had been so intense, but since when was the demon's intuition wrong?

Cyrus didn't know what or why, but he was sure in that moment Acheron had done something to the missing recruit.

What wasn't Acheron telling him?

Cyrus was forced to tamp down these thoughts. His failure in saving Delilah had proven he was not ready to take the demon on. He erected a mental wall around his suspicions and dutifully adhered to Acheron's lessons for the following week, not daring to push his luck and leave the house just yet. Cyrus especially could not imagine stepping foot into the compound. Acheron's attempt at painting him as some messiah was obviously premature, and now everyone must have feared and reviled Cyrus.

Among the most interesting training sessions that week had come up when Acheron caught him dwelling on Delilah. The demon had entered the room as quiet as a whisper and Cyrus didn't have enough time to shield the images of her bloody body that were going through his head.

Unsure of what else to do to fill the ensuing silence, the heaviness in the air indicative of the demon's disapproval, Cyrus said, "It won't happen again. I won't fail you again."

"Pray that you're right," Acheron responded coldly. "Speaking of prayers—are you ready for your next lesson?"

There wasn't really a question there, with only one answer Cyrus could give. He nodded, and Acheron led him to the den.

Cyrus did his best to ignore the tingling along his spine that came alive each time he looked at Acheron. As the demon spoke, the two sitting in their usual position a few feet away from each other, Cyrus found it easier to forget his troubles and focus on the lesson. He knew, however, he'd never be able to let his guard down again; he would always have to devote a sliver of his awareness to keeping his feelings under lock and key.

"When you go looking for something," Acheron was saying, "it tends to find you. I have no doubt you'll find yourself capable of demonstrating this. Anyone somewhat removed from humanity is—demons, reapers, you."

Acheron went on to explain that names have power, and if anyone thought his own name hard enough he'd hear it.

"Mostly you don't need to listen for your name," Acheron continued. "A desire, a wish—any prayer will do. As soon as a person opens themselves up to a higher power, any of us may hear their call. You simply must learn to pick up on the frequency."

Acheron instructed him to clear his mind and meditate for several minutes. With Cyrus's eyes still closed, Acheron told him to open his mind and let the prayers come to him. As with many of the other things Cyrus had done, attempting to force something to happen didn't have a high success rate.

He sat in silence for several minutes, nearly getting restless, when he finally heard something other than his own thoughts: a little hum came to life in the back of his mind. Cyrus turned his attention to it and it slowly rose in volume, the static smoothing out and forming real words. A voice he didn't recognize--nasally and adolescent--was saying, "Is there anyone with us? Tell us your name."

As the voice became clearer, images came to Cyrus as well: as vivid as if they were in the room with him, he saw three teens seated around a wooden board with the entire alphabet printed across it in rows.

"Infuriating children, always jamming up the signal," Acheron muttered. "Skip past this, tune into someone else."

The scene was gone as soon as it had arrived. For awhile there was silence, until another voice made itself known. Cyrus latched onto it until he could make it out: timid, even younger than the first, and whispering.

"Please, Lord," a child said, and Cyrus could see his bowed head and clasped hands. "Let mommy come home safely--"

This voice vanished, too, and he couldn't find it again. Cyrus's eyes snapped open and he exhaled in frustration.

"As you practice, this should come more naturally." Acheron assured him. He wrapped up the day's training session with the order that Cyrus try it again on his own time. Acheron's parting words: "It comes useful when you need to find someone." Ignoring the implications of this, Cyrus also figured the exercise would serve to recruit more members eventually. What better way to paint himself as a messiah than answering prayers? The memory of Raziel doing the same thing came to mind, and Cyrus was glad to finally know how he'd done it.

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In the gap between lessons one day, when enough time had passed to ease the tension, Cyrus slipped out of the house and made for the subway.

On the train, Cyrus could feel eyes on him, but when he glanced up there was no one looking his way. The bench he occupied was otherwise empty, as were the ones nearby. To either end a few people were scattered, immersed in their phones except one. He kept watching the latter figure, who had a newspaper opened in front of their face; it took a moment for Cyrus to place him, then he recognized the man's suede boots.

Gritting his teeth, Cyrus left his own seat and took the place beside Moloch. With a toothy grin, the reaper tossed the newspaper aside. "Guess I'll have to work on the incognito shit. Your old man thought you'd benefit from a security detail," he said sarcastically. "Just forget I'm even here."

What was this--a warning? Cyrus didn't respond, staring out the window for the rest of the ride to Brooklyn. He didn't appreciate having a babysitter, but being shadowed was better than being quarantined in the house.

As soon as Cyrus got above-ground, he lost Moloch in the crowd, though he had no doubt the reaper was close behind. Trying to shake off the anxiety that was trailing cold fingers down his spine, Cyrus hunched his shoulders against the cold and trudged towards the private school. When the students came bursting out at the final bell, Tuesday was not among the gathering.

A brief moment of unease squeezed around his heart before Cyrus realized he should have expected this. Who went to school when their father, as unsavory of a character as he may have been, just died?

He turned around and made for the church. He didn't make it inside before stopping short, almost crashing into a group of people staring up at the eastern wall of the building. Cyrus had to shoulder his way through, dodging the hands that were up in the air, aiming cameras. Then he saw it.

Marring the once white surface, in giant, jagged splotches and splatters of red, were the words FAITH IS A LIE THEY FEED US AT GUNPOINT. OBLIVION IS A PROMISE. The graffiti nearly engulfed the entire wall, each letter as tall as Cyrus himself was.

His breath caught in his throat, part dismay and part awe. The first thought that popped into Cyrus's head was how convenient it all was, how easily the situation could be exploited; a most devout man had fallen and taken with him a tattered reputation. It could only spell out a plethora of wayward followers, in search of a new truth.

His second thought brought with it a wave of shame that warmed his face and made him shudder.

From the back of the building, Tuesday appeared around the corner, a gallon of paint in either hand. With a hoarse, raw voice, she started to shout, "Show's over, people--" Then she saw Cyrus and stumbled to a stop.

He couldn't read the look in her eyes. Her expression was blank, unresponsive.

It must have set in, then, the reality of what Cyrus was: a freak. It brought a bitter taste to his mouth, and he turned to face the gathering crowd and shot them with his most withering glare. Many of the gawkers visibly shuddered before clearing their throats, muttering under their breaths and scattering away, leaving the sidewalk near the church empty.

When he turned back to Tuesday, nothing had changed about her demeanor. She didn't shake or regard him with condemnation.

Silently, Cyrus stepped forward and took one of the cans. A rickety ladder was already propped against the wall, along with various brushes laying atop a spread-out garbage bag on the ground. Selecting one, he stirred it in the eggshell-tinted paint and went to work.

After several moments' hesitation, Tuesday joined him. They didn't speak for the first hour, though occasionally Cyrus caught her staring at him with a slight smile. When his arms began to ache to the point he couldn't hold the paintbrush still, he sunk to the pavement. The sun was at a 45 degree angle in the sky, and they'd only covered up about half of the spray paint.

With a drawn out sigh, Tuesday joined him on the ground. Flecks of white paint clung to the ends of her hair and stood out against the black jeans she was wearing. Cyrus couldn't remember a time she'd ever worn something so dark, and he looked at her more carefully to see her typically french manicured nails were now painted ebony.

She was rubbing one finger along the edge of her tennis shoes. Up close, Cyrus could now see what was written on them; a line of poetry adorned each, the left reading "what matters most is how" and the right reading "well you walk through the fire".

Quietly, Tuesday said, "I'm glad you came. I've been really..." She shrugged one shoulder, picking at the hem of her navy blue flannel shirt. "It was hard getting anyone to listen to me, no one wanted to believe he was capable of, uh---" She glanced at him, face getting red, before ducking her head. "The cops couldn't argue with the evidence, though, and they let me go. My mom, on the other hand, she still isn't talking to me."

After going silent for a few minutes, she suddenly said, "Cyrus, can you promise me something?" When he met Tuesday's eyes, he almost flinched back upon seeing the desperation in them. "Whatever the hell your uncle is, I don't wanna know. Don't tell me, please."

Cyrus couldn't hold back the nervous laughter, some of the weight lifting off his chest. Then, biting his lip, he muttered, "What about me?"

Evading the question, Tuesday replied, "There's something about you, something..."

"Inhuman?"

Shaking her head slowly, she corrected, "Divine."

Cyrus rose from the ground, facing the street so he didn't have to look at her. His hands began to shake, and he curled them into fists.

Tuesday continued to speak, her voice meek now. "You're not like him. I know that."

Grinding his teeth together, Cyrus managed to bite out, "I'm more like him than you know."

"No. You just don't know any other way. Can you not see the hold he has on you?"

The tremors had spread from his hands to his limbs. Cyrus's vision wavered in and out of focus, and he steadied himself against the wall, careful not to touch the freshly painted areas. The need came over him then--no, it was just a longing--and he yearned for some semblance of control. "I need to go," he whispered.

"Well, I'm not done," Tuesday retorted, a cold edge entering her tone.

"There's something I need to do."

"Kill?"

The word hung in the air between them, and Cyrus couldn't resist the order in it to finally look at her. Her eyes were devoid of emotion, and again, he would have given anything to know what she was thinking.

Tuesday stared at her shoes, tangling her fingers together aggressively. "Your uncle, or whoever the hell, said you have to or you'd...die." By the end of the sentence, her voice was barely audible.

Would he? Cyrus wanted to doubt it--he'd gone years without--but the hooks were deep in him now. He didn't think he had the strength to go without long enough to test the theory.

Still oozing nervous energy, Tuesday said, "You can't hurt innocent people, Cyrus, that isn't you."

He averted his own eyes, thinking that she was dead wrong about that assumption. Energy was energy, and he hadn't regretted where it came from.

"But, if you'll stop doing that..."

Her grey eyes were hard with determination--or was that resignation?

"I'll help."