Cyrus wanted to be alone. His wishes rarely seemed to be granted lately, though, and when he slipped down into the subway Moloch reappeared beside him. A shit-eating grin split across his face and he gave a low whistle, thumping Cyrus on the back.
"You sure got your hooks in deep there," he said.
The same could be said about the reverse; the idea of Tuesday and his own extracurricular activities mixing had no appeal. Cyrus didn't want her anywhere near more death and destruction. It was unnatural.
Moloch kept chattering, getting more and more suggestive until Cyrus decided it was better to just tune him out. He had never seen Moloch around, but the reaper must have found a decent hiding spot to have heard his conversation; this was far from comforting.
The last thing Tuesday had said to him got stuck in a vicious cycle in Cyrus's head; he'd asked her what it felt like to care about who lives or dies, and she'd replied, deadpan, "You already know." He wanted to chalk up all her observations as being grossly inaccurate, but the longer he dwelled on them, the more his guard went down. Cyrus did know what it felt like. He'd felt it when the sight of James Crocker's wallet had turned Tuesday against him; he'd felt it when Delilah bled out right under his hands and there was nothing he could do to save her.
The line dividing humanity from all the dark and twisted things that nightmares were made of was terribly thin, it seemed. Pastor Hale had dabbled in that darkness; Cyrus was gaining a conscience; and now, the nicest girl in New York was offering to play Grim Reaper with him. Everything he thought he knew about the world was rolling over and dying, and the truths rising from those graves weren't any prettier.
Upon arriving back at the house, Cyrus sealed himself in his room, uninterested in seeing if Moloch would report the day's events to his mentor. He needed the chance to think these things over himself.
Cyrus tried for hours to think of a reason to turn Tuesday's offer down, but came up with nothing. He had an addiction and she was prepared to supply the needle.
It went beyond a simple craving now, anyhow. With every soul he took, he grew stronger; he would need to continue refining his abilities, and fast. His relationship with Acheron grew more tenuous with each passing day and Cyrus needed to be ready for anything. The first task at hand he must tackle would be gaining Second Advent's faith; Cyrus couldn't remain a pariah if he ever wanted to lead them some day.
It would be no easy feat, and Cyrus knew he needed to fuel up. Acheron had preached obscurity and moderation to him...
But screw moderation. Cyrus wanted a bloodbath.
And as long as he continued playing the part of a dutiful soldier, he couldn't see how Acheron could object. The demon clearly had some purpose for him, and Cyrus was not of much use at such low power.
Cyrus slept soundly that night, having finally reached his decision.
In the kitchen the following morning, Cyrus paused in the act of pouring out some cereal when he saw the hair on his arms stand on end. Seconds later, the familiarity—and at the same time, totally alien—of Tuesday's presence washed over him. He changed course to open the front door and saw she was sitting on the porch steps, staring at the ground.
Clearing his throat, Cyrus sank down beside her and asked, "How long...?"
Tuesday shrugged, the black of her outfit contrasting dramatically with her pallid skin. Dark circles ringed her eyes, which were sort of red and bloodshot. Whatever brightness had survived her trip into hell had retreated into hiding.
It seemed Cyrus wasn't the only one with a bloodlust. Pastor Hale's death didn't seem to be enough for her; she was killing every last trace of the old Tuesday along with him.
Sometimes her eyes would glaze over and she'd freeze, and any sudden movement from Cyrus would shock her back to reality and make her flinch. It wasn't hard to guess what she was seeing, and it was clear from how on edge Tuesday had become that her dreams of blood and death weren't sweet ones.
When Cyrus asked her why she wanted to help him, Tuesday replied, "After you...you know...when you were unconscious on the table it looked more like you were dead." Voice dropping to a whisper, she continued, "You're all I have now. I can't give this up. I can't lose you too."
After a moment, Tuesday added, "I'm sorry for coming over so early, I just had to get out of the house. My mom, she—" her voice cracked, and it took a moment for her to compose herself. "She called me a lying whore."
For once, Cyrus's preferred muteness didn't damper the conversation. He knew nothing he said would make a difference. Standing, he opened the door and beckoned her inside instead. Cyrus led her to the dining table, where he slid his untouched cereal over to her and took a seat across the table.
"Thanks," she said quietly, the hint of a smile briefly touching her lips.
They sat in silence until Cyrus could think of something to say. "How will you help me?"
Tuesday bit her lip, twirling the spoon in her fingers and not looking up. After enough time had passed that Cyrus was convinced she wouldn't respond, she said, "I'll be your bait."
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Her motive finally clicked in place then, the one that explained her strange calmness about planning a murder. Priests and druggies weren't on the menu; no, people like her own father were.
This was personal, and she really was out for blood. Cyrus, for a brief moment, worried this would bring consequences.
But he was too far gone to care. They both were.
§
The first of many arrived three days later, a man whose lasciviousness clung to him tighter than the two-sizes too small jeans he wore. Now that Cyrus had experience with the feeling, he had come to recognize its distinct high-strung nature. Nothing physically gave hint to the man's inner demons, but then again, Pastor Hale had proven wolves can comfortably don sheep's clothing.
If the man's energy weren't enough indication, the chat logs between him and who he had thought to be a fourteen year old girl was the last nail in the coffin. It hadn't taken much on Tuesday's part to lure him here; she uploaded some pictures of herself in her school uniform and her hair in pigtails online, and within hours several men had messaged her, the texts starting as friendly and quickly nose-diving into obscene. Cyrus had no taste for the theatrics and effort involved and mainly steered clear of learning any of the details.
All that mattered was the man approaching Tuesday, and the faint outline of the gun Cyrus could see sticking out of his waistband even from his position several dozen yards away.
Tuesday had agreed to meet the man alone in Central Park after dusk, promising it would be their secret. Away from the lit path and hidden in a copse of trees, cloaked in darkness, Cyrus was sure he couldn't be seen. He waited, fingers tapping his blade, until the man was facing away from him, sitting on the park bench and closing the distance between himself and Tuesday.
The man snaked one arm around her, drawing her inward, and she seemed to freeze. Tuesday remained as still as a predator waiting patiently to strike; despite this, Cyrus could only read into it as fear.
He crept forward, watching carefully as the two rose from the bench, one of the man's hands clamping possessively down on Tuesday's shoulder. Before he could turn and spot Cyrus, he had one arm wrapped around the man's torso, pinning his arms there, and the blade was to his throat.
Cyrus dug the knife in, muscles tensing to jerk it to the side, when he remembered Tuesday's presence mere feet away. She was still frozen, but no fear existed in her eyes.
There was nothing in them at all, the grey bottomless and cold. It made Cyrus's hand shake on the knife. Since crossing paths with Tuesday again, he'd seen her as the sacrificial lamb. That perception was comically inaccurate.
No, now—now she was the slaughterer.
"Go," Cyrus snapped through gritted teeth as the man struggled in his arms. The tone of his voice broke Tuesday's trance; she jolted back, gave him one last wide-eyed stare, then turned and fled in the other direction.
As Cyrus dragged the man off the path, the latter wildly jabbed his elbows backward but never made contact. He had around 4 inches height over Cyrus and half his weight seemed to be concentrated in his biceps, but it was over in seconds, and the shock was enough to do him in.
The man hadn't expected to cross paths with another hunter that night.
Cyrus's hand slicked with blood and the body dropped limp to the ground. For a moment, he took in the feeling rushing through his veins--more potent than any numbed-up druggie could ever be--and then reality hit him.
He hadn't thought this through.
Materializing behind him, a voice as dark as the night said, "Well, there's one thing you've got right."
Raziel stood, head bowed, staring down at the corpse with a grimace. He ran a weary hand over his face before turning away from the dead man and regarding Cyrus with exhaustion apparent in his eyes. The normal sarcastic cheeriness was long gone.
"I'll take care of the body," Raziel said quietly. "Lucky for you, your babysitter seemed to have more important business to attend to tonight, or I wouldn't have risked being here."
Why would you do that? Cyrus asked silently. He was beginning to wonder if this demon wasn't much different from Acheron, and only wanted something for himself.
"Figured I ought to remind you you're in the midst of a war, and you can't play for both teams. You need to start thinking about what it is you really want." Narrowing his eyes, Raziel jutted a finger towards the body at their feet. "Is this it?"
Before Cyrus could formulate a response, a set of footsteps pounded against the sidewalk; Tuesday came around the bend, beginning to say, "Are you ok--" then her eyes landed on Raziel, and she came to a halt.
Wordlessly, they looked each other over; the hint of dread entered Tuesday's eyes but Raziel remained emotionless. After a moment, he shook his head and muttered, "Bonnie and Clyde, in the flesh."
Raziel drew a dagger from his jacket, opening a dripping line across his forearm and saying, "I've given you plenty of favors already. Remember that when hell comes knocking." Kneeling to the ground, he fisted a hand in the dead man's shirt and gave Cyrus one more reproachful look before muttering an incantation and disappearing.
The sound of Tuesday's gasp once again reminded Cyrus of her presence; it seemed to be very difficult to get used to the concepts of her and his darkness mingling. She stared at the spot Raziel had occupied moments before, mouth agape. Breath wheezing, she said, "What--what the hell--"
Half of his attention was still on what Raziel had been saying, but Cyrus grabbed one of her hands and squeezed. Her eyes finally snapped up from the ground and met his.
The adrenaline and man's energy were still fresh and setting his nerves alight. On a hunch, Cyrus concentrated on the feeling his daily meditation gave him: a smooth, all-encompassing calmness. He felt it spread, the tranquility tangible in the air, and the tenseness left Tuesday's shoulders. She gave a shaky sigh, closing her eyes.
"Who was that?"
"A friend," Cyrus replied uncertainly.
"You don't have a stellar taste in friends, do you?"
Cyrus ignored this, glancing down at their still-intertwined hands. He slipped his free and replaced it against her back, ushering her down the path and out of Central Park. He left her at her own doorstep without a word, though they shared a long look before Tuesday finally entered her home. On his way back, the images of her coldly delivering a man to his doom swam through his mind.
Black was not her color and darkness didn't look good on her. It was wrong, went against her nature like an angel toting a pitchfork.
Nonetheless, they weren't about to stop. Cyrus needn't even worry about dealing with the aftermath, either; upon getting home that first night, Acheron took one look at the blood staining his clothes and said, "If you agree to stop consorting with bottomfeeders, I will help you clean up next time."
Cyrus, not expecting any real answers, asked just who Raziel was.
"Just another scavenger," Acheron scoffed. "Another misanthrope who wants to be god. Remember that," he warned.
Cyrus would. Raziel wouldn't be the only contender for the title. The lack of wrath raining down upon Cyrus's head even when he'd snuck around was the real concern; why had there been no punishment? Why would Acheron react so cooly to Cyrus's new plan of attack?
As he drifted off to sleep that night, the delirium whispered a suggestion: maybe even Acheron could be afraid of what was coming.