A week had passed since the ceremony and Cyrus was still coming down from the high. The other members of the congregation seemed to sense the change in him, keeping their heads down and hurrying past any time he walked their way.

That was alright. He was used to it.

What surprised him was learning it was sort of his fault, and that he could control it. For years, Cyrus's role in the organization was to spectate: go along on recruitments, watch the little miracles Acheron performed to sway people to their way of thinking, and observe each member and report if any of them began to show signs of relapse. Most of them were Christian, after all, and that God had a way of sticking in people's heads. Then Acheron told him he was a man now, and it was time to get more involved.

"The first step will be changing how people see you," Cyrus's mentor had explained. "It's your nature to show the world your true self, but you must learn to mask it."

Acheron promised they would begin his training that evening, but had some errands to run, leaving Cyrus alone to his own devices. It often was this way, Acheron disappearing for hours or days on end and doing—well, whatever the hell demons did. This left him with an entire house to himself; even Bune and Moloch were subjected to the compound a mile away, entrusted to keep an eye on the congregation. The one normal thing about Cyrus was that he had a home to call his own.

It was small, just enough space to encompass two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen and den. The house was mostly bare, with plain walls in need of a second coat of paint and just the necessities as far as furniture went. It looked like they had just moved in yesterday, though Cyrus had been living there for almost his whole life.

Free time. He didn't have many ways to spend it: no books, no television or anything else to hold his attention. He could busy himself through self reflection or meditation, both Acheron-approved activities. Since Cyrus had been thinking about himself all week, he opted to go with the latter.

Cyrus had just closed his eyes, letting himself sink into a peaceful, empty-minded nothingness, when the doorbell rang.

The tone sounded through the whole house, echoing around the empty space. He flinched. They didn't get many visitors; not unexpected ones, anyways.

Cyrus crept to the door, listening intently. When he heard nothing come from the other side, he stretched out with his mind, expecting to feel a faint presence on the other end, if anything at all. But what he actually felt—it made his hands start to tremble, sent a jolt of electricity up his spine.

He hadn't felt such power since killing the priest. No, he hadn't felt this kind of power ever. And the strangest thing about it...It wasn't fear or darkness. It was something he could only describe as brightness, like he was trying to stare straight into the sun.

It burned.

The doorbell rang again, and with another flinch of his shoulders Cyrus swung the door open. He didn't know what to expect on the other side, but it wasn't a teenage girl with a sparkly lipglossed smile. Beyond that, though, he could see her eyeliner was a bit smeared and her eyes were red.

"Good morning, sir. I'm with Cross Fellowship and we're all a little worried about a friend who's gone missing. Have you seen this man?"

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She uncurled her fist and thrust a flier at him.

Cyrus's stomach had already begun to flip as she spoke, and he spared the quickest glance at the paper. The familiar face of the priest smiled back up at him, devoid of the sweat and pain and fear Cyrus himself had painted it with. The flier put a name to what had been an emotionless, bare canvas of a kill: James Crocker.

A devout man was a loved one, and Cyrus should have seen this coming. Still, his mind went quiet, freezing in a panic. Without thinking over his actions, he began to shut the door in the girl's face.

"Hold on a min—Cyrus?"

A foot appeared in the doorway, and he was unable to shut it all the way. He scowled down at her tattered black tennis shoes and tried to calm the tremors coming to life in his palms.

"It really is you, isn't it?" The girl continued, her voice hushed now. In fear or—and he didn't understand this one—awe?

Cyrus risked a quick glance at her face, but got caught in her black-rimmed stare and stayed there.

She sucked in a breath, shaking her head. "Do you remember me?"

Cyrus said nothing.

Tuesday Hale nodded slowly, the smile reappearing. "You haven't changed. Don't I warrant at least a hello, though?"

Her foot had left the threshold, and Cyrus took the opportunity to finally shut the door. He leaned against it panting.

A silent, motionless moment passed.

When he was able to catch his breath, he continued to stay very still, counting in his head until he reached triple digits. Then he opened the door again, just an inch.

She was gone. But she left her flier, and James Crocker's friendly face looked more accusatory now.

—

"Would you care to explain why you're so unfocused?"

Cyrus snapped himself out of the daze, refocusing on the present. Acheron had returned home and, as promised, begun his training. The two of them sat cross-legged on the bare floor of the den, inches apart. He bit his lip, hard, and averted his eyes.

"Now, as I was saying," Acheron said, the edge leaving his voice. "Everything has energy. Yours is strong, stronger than most. To some degree, people can sense that."

Cyrus nodded at the appropriate times, trying to keep his eyes on his mentor, but every now and then drifted.

"Eventually you will be able to change just how they react to it. What are you feeling from me?"

Darkness. That's the first thought that popped into his head; too basic of a description, but the only earthly explanation for the waves of ancient power pouring off of Acheron. It felt like drowning. It felt like burning alive. It felt like all the millions of collective fears mankind has ever endured. Cyrus fought the urge to shrink back.

Acheron tipped his head. "No need to flatter me. What do you feel now?"

Cyrus uncurled his fists, seeing the tremble that had started in them moments before had already died. He released a deep breath, able to meet Acheron's eyes again.

"Less intimidating, yes? This is what you will need to master."

With his best effort, Cyrus tried to tamp down his unrelated thoughts, but they overcame him. The fear Acheron had just showed him, the fear he himself had given to the priest—why had Tuesday seemed unbothered by it? He had no idea how to shut it off yet, but her only concern had been why he was shutting the door in her face.

"Cyrus." Acheron snapped his fingers in front of his face. Narrowing his eyes to slits he said, "Did something happen today?" The temperature seemed to plummet then.

Cyrus forced himself to verbalize his thoughts this time. "No."

Acheron simply looked at him, sporting his best poker face.

The cracks in his façade widened, and he caved. He projected his best mental image of Tuesday's flier, focusing entirely on James Crocker's face and avoiding any mention of the girl.

Acheron rose, turning and staring at the ceiling. He stood like that for several minutes, and Cyrus's limbs were too frozen for him to follow suit.

Cyrus figured this was the working definition of shit hitting the fan. Why hadn't he thought to question what they'd do with Crocker's body?

Acheron snapped his head back down, looking back at Cyrus. "Calm down. It has been taken care of."

The demon turned on his heel and strode from the room, pausing for one brief moment at the door.

"You have never lied to me before, boy. You don't want to find out what happens if you should do it again."

When the front door slammed, Cyrus crept back to his bedroom. Legs nearly giving out from under him, he fell back on his plain, stiff mattress and went under a blissful nothingness.

Except it didn't stay nothing for long. For the first time in—and he didn't realize this immediately—over a decade, Cyrus dreamt. It took awhile to make sense of what was being shown to him, to unravel the shapes and colors and sounds and put a meaning to them...and then he remembered. He remembered this wasn't the first time he'd dreamt this.

And focusing harder on the bloodied girl in the tattered nightgown, he realized she was no stranger.

Back when he was just a kid it had made no sense, but Cyrus had just seen this girl—on his own doorstep.

The dream morphed as he processed this. Tuesday looked down at the body beside her feet, then to the knife in her hand—the knife Cyrus had used to kill the priest. Licking the blood off her lips, Tuesday told him, "You were right. That wasn't so bad."

Fuck. Shit had indeed hit the fan, and now it was raining down all around like—

Well, shit.