Several days later, Cyrus stared in dread at the suit hanging in his closet. He'd been demoted to a human Ken doll, shoved into one dressing room after another at a mall in Brooklyn until Tuesday deemed his appearance acceptable. Staring at the product of his agony, Cyrus did not see the intrigue.

But if it meant getting out of the house to do something other than sulking in the shadows and staking out more victims, he was on board. The constant high he rode on wasn't a negative by far, but Cyrus would be lying if he claimed it didn't get tedious.

He felt a dark presence fill the room and turned to see Acheron regarding him and the suit with distaste.

"I still cannot comprehend how you think this is a good use of your time," he scoffed. "You're getting soft."

The image of Delilah suddenly thrust itself into the forefront of Cyrus's mind, and he asked quietly, "Did you mean for me to fail?"

Acheron's eyes narrowed, but he responded, "Failure is a useful teaching. You cannot have everything handed to you."

Cyrus mulled on this for several moments, thoughts always skipping back to the demon's comment: You're getting soft. Working his jaw, Cyrus said, "If I prove you wrong on that..." Then he sent a meaningful gaze to the suit, letting the question hang in his mind.

The demon's ensuing laugh was as cold and hard as steel. "And just what do you think you can do to fix that mess you started?"

Cyrus didn't respond, crossing his arms and waiting.

Acheron exhaled sharply, glancing up at the ceiling as if God himself were watching and he wanted to express his annoyance. "Have it your way." He stalked back out the room, leaving Cyrus with the task at hand.

When the answer came to mind, his first response was to recoil away from it. Cyrus was beginning to acclimate to the feeling the blood of the dark and twisted gave him, but spilling that of an innocent was becoming foreign to him. He steeled himself, knowing he had to prove his worth. Now or never; if he backed down now, he may never get the courage again.

He had to show Acheron he could still do what he needed to, no matter how unsavory.

Remembering not so long ago, though it felt like lifetimes back, when some members of Second Advent had complained about Cyrus scaring them, he meditated on this. When his mind had cleared, it didn't stay empty for long; just as he'd been taught, he let the voice he was searching for come to him, and it transformed from an unintelligible hum to actual words.

It seemed though weeks had passed, Delilah was still on some of the members' minds. Cyrus heard his name and latched onto it, letting the images and thoughts follow. Clearly in his mind's eye he could see two members huddled together in a room of the compound, whispering.

"...still can't believe he let her die."

"Are you kidding? He didn't 'let' anything happen, he's a fraud!"

Cyrus let go of the scene, rising from the ground. He'd heard enough.

He had his general course of action in mind but let no plan form; they'd never been much use to Cyrus. Whatever was meant to happen always seemed to be spawned by emotion, in the moment--he knew there was no way to prepare for this. As such, he didn't attempt to, not even arming himself with his ceremonial knife. They'd already seen that weapon in action; it would not hold the same effect this second time around.

In the hall, Bune was leaning against the wall. There always seemed to be a reaper around as of late, never straying far from Cyrus, so this did not come as a surprise.

"Tell Acheron to meet me at the compound," Cyrus said to him. "He won't want to miss this."

Then he stepped out of the house with nothing to his name but the energy coursing through his veins, more excitable than an adrenaline rush.

Raziel's words came back to him as he plunged through the woods: Messiah, or son of perdition?

Cyrus's answer had never changed. There was no use in trying to change minds that were already made up about him.

That left him with one option: prove them right.

Upon reaching the compound, he sent the front door crashing into the wall; the faux living room was empty, but Cyrus knew those living below would hear. He descended the stairs, but not all the way to the basement. Around halfway down, he reached the room he'd seen and stopped there. From adjacent rooms people were already peering out, and their fear wrapped around him and only urged him forward.

It wasn't hard to imagine how Acheron himself kept anyone in line--fear was a powerful motivator. If it was too late to sway these people to Cyrus's side, to make them believe in him, he would simply show them they had no other option.

He did not have to play the role of a merciful god. The god they'd all forsaken was not a miracle worker himself, so this would hardly be a new concept.

When a sizable crowd had gathered from the commotion, Cyrus stepped into the bedroom he'd positioned himself outside of. It was a tiny, cramped space with just enough room for two bunk beds surrounded by peeling grey cement-block walls. The two members from his vision were still there, eyes wide and waiting to see what Cyrus was going to do.

"I hear you think I'm a fraud," he said lowly, the only sound on the entire floor.

The two women opposite looked a lot alike: thin, appearing as fragile as china dolls with lank hair and the kind of pallid skin that came from spending most of your time underground. Cyrus could tell them apart, though: the first one who had spoken, the one who hadn't called him a fraud, seemed to be the most afraid. Her knees knocked together, entire body shaking.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The other glanced between the two other faces in the room, letting the hint of confusion and fear come over her face, but her voice barely shook when she said, "Why do you say that?"

"I heard you," Cyrus replied simply.

"You just came in. You couldn't have heard anything." The confidence was sucked from her voice, though.

Cyrus was aware of the crowd pressing in further behind him, anticipation and dread tangible in the air, heavy enough to smother. He felt the looming darkness of Acheron's presence, but the demon did nothing to intercede. It seemed everyone was at a loss, unsure where this was going.

Turning to the other woman, voice deadpan, he quoted, "'I still can't believe he let her die.'"

She visibly gulped. Cyrus didn't give her a second glance; she wasn't his target.

Turning to the other woman, he took a moment to size her up and let the trepidation fester. She tried to meet his eyes before quickly looking to the ground, tremors now wracking her body as well.

"I'm not a fraud," he said, and several things happened at once.

The light from the sconces lining the walls flickered erratically; the temperature seemed to plummet; and the woman Cyrus had his cold stare set on gasped, hands flying to her chest.

Maybe this would piss Acheron off, Cyrus idly thought, but one human life held not much weight; this would set the example he needed, and there were always more where they came from. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, and the woman doubled over with a scream. Cyrus could almost hear her heartbeat in his own ears: thumping, pounding as if it were about to explode--before going dead still and silent. She keeled over, open eyes staring emptily at the onlookers.

Quietly, Cyrus slipped back out of the room, the crowd readily parting for him. No one dared to breathe or speak, but some of their breaths came in shocked gasps and low whimpers.

He met Acheron's eyes on the way out, just for one moment, and thought he could read the emotion in them: surprise, but not disapproval.

None of these people would question either of them again, and Acheron knew it.

Before his actions could catch up with him--before he could really put notice to the trembling in his hands--Cyrus set out into the woods and back home. He was not followed. The trek didn't require much concentration, and his thoughts went back to what he'd just done. No matter how fast he walked he couldn't ditch the feeling that was forming in the pit of his stomach, churning there.

What good was a conscience when it didn't stop him from actually doing the act, just tied his stomach up in knots afterword?

When he reached the house, though, these thoughts were replaced by new concerns. The sky had been painted over with shades of orange and red. Cyrus quickly struggled into the jet-black suit and matching slacks, not enjoying how the fabric chafed against his skin and clung to it so tightly. He felt too stiff in it, unnatural, and was rethinking the whole dance thing when the doorbell rang.

Cyrus sighed, giving himself one last once-over before answering the door.

He drank in the sight of her--black lace falling over her shoulders, flowing to her knees, exposing the sharp angles of her collarbones--before his face flushed and he looked away again. Cyrus mumbled a greeting; Tuesday didn't appear at all perturbed by his reaction.

She reached out and gently smoothed his hair down with her hands, before leaning back and smiling. "Well, you clean up nice."

Cyrus didn't know what to say. He figured that was his cue to compliment her, as if just the sight of her didn't beg that enough. He stayed silent, though; he couldn't find his voice. Even his thoughts were quiet.

Again, the desire to call it quits slammed into him. Then Tuesday laughed softly and grabbed his hand, and he let her tug him out of the house.

Cyrus wondered if she'd be so friendly had she known what he did earlier.

Even from outside, the school nearly shook from the heavy waves of music pouring from the doors. Other students streamed around them, and upon entering the gym, Cyrus could have guessed there were several hundred people there--at least. His throat tightened and he shrank back from the feelings that attacked him from every side--he could feel the energy their mass presence left on the air.

The lights were dim, and what existed of them flashed in multiple directions; the music made the ground vibrate beneath his feet and the effect made Cyrus dizzy. He'd never been somewhere with this many people at once.

"Hey, it's okay," Tuesday called to him over the music. She placed a hand over his heart and said, "Just look at me. Forget about them."

Cyrus obeyed, watching the flashing lights accent different angles of her face and tint her skin pink, purple, and blue.

He had no idea what to do. He glanced around, trying to take cues from the other teenagers but couldn't understand just how they were moving their bodies to appear more graceful and less like--well, less like they didn't know what the hell they were doing.

He would have to stand with his earlier suspicion: high school dances were hell on earth.

Seeing the panic in his eyes, Tuesday guided his hands to her waist and placed her own on his shoulders. She leaned in, and her presence seemed to overpower all the others; Cyrus settled his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes until the dizziness subsided.

Then he felt Tuesday stiffen. He raised his head again.

Normally he could have expected all the eyes to be on him, for everyone to be speculating what an aberration he was...but when Cyrus glanced around them again, he saw several pairs of unfriendly eyes on Tuesday. He was a stranger, unimportant to the scene, but it was clear Tuesday was an outsider in their own ranks.

Cyrus turned them around so she was facing the wall. Her eyes stayed hard and she set her jaw, glowering at the ground.

Still unable to find his voice, he tapped Tuesday's shoulder until she met his confused stare. She shook her head angrily, and he could barely hear her response over the thudding music. "Half of these people go to Cross Fellowship."

Cyrus grimaced. Funny how even in death Pastor Hale still had a hold on people.

A voice cut over the music, and now that Cyrus was facing the offending crowd, he saw the skinny, red-faced boy who had spoken. "You don't belong here, freak!"

Anyone within a ten-yard radius turned to look. Under their stare, Cyrus felt more heat rush to his face, this time spreading through his entire body, extending down his limbs and to the tips of his fingers. His hands tightened into fists, and maybe if the lights weren't already flashing, everyone would have noticed them flicker.

"We have a strict no-killers-allowed policy here," the boy continued to shout. Tuesday ducked her head, shaking in Cyrus's arms, but his attention was deadlocked on the boy.

A brief warning flashed through his head, a reminder that he should calm down. Cyrus threw caution out the window and didn't bother trying to slow his pulse or breaths. All he could focus on was the cruelty sparkling in the other boy's eyes. Anger, white-hot, crashed over Cyrus in a tidal wave.

And with no warning at all, the boy burst into flames.

With a spark, fire came to life and licked up his jacket, incinerating it, smoking ashes falling to the ground. He gave a guttural scream, twisting and slapping at the flames but they only continued to devour, engulfing him. Then the other students began to scream as well, their voices joining into one high-pitched symphony drowning out the actual music, and they dashed for the doors, stumbling over one another.

The smoke rising off the boy had reached the ceiling and set the sprinklers off; cold water began to pelt them from above, but the boy's body was already lying still on the ground. The gym was deserted by then except for Cyrus and Tuesday, the latter of which regarded him with a wide-eyed stare.

Taking a shaky breath, Tuesday sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders. With no other indicator of what she must have been feeling, she pulled Cyrus back into her arms.

Normal, it seemed, was not in the cards for either of them.

They continued to sway to the music still playing at the abandoned DJ booth, staying that way until You Shook Me All Night Long dwindled to a close.