He was alone, he was sure; he hadn't sensed anyone following his trail. The night was quiet, in stark contrast to the battle zone that was now Cyrus's mind.

After changing into dry clothes, he had slipped his ceremonial knife in his shirt, the feeling of the cool metal against his bare flesh a reminder not to lose his head. Cyrus revisited some old haunts--Central Park, the drug den, even the sidewalk outside Tuesday's home. There he paused, staring at the darkened windows for just a moment before continuing on his way. All the while, he was making his first prayer, focusing so hard on the name it birthed a splitting headache.

As he whirled in circles, Cyrus saw he was still totally alone.

Fuming now, Cyrus let go of all restraint and began yelling Raziel's name.

If he had ever doubted whether the demon had been spying on him, that uncertainty crashed and burned when Cyrus was able to say the name just twice. The clearing of a throat behind him caused Cyrus to whirl around, coming face-to-face with Raziel.

The demon was leaning against an alley wall, calmly dragging on a cigarette. Exhaling a cloud of smoke in Cyrus's face, Raziel clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Jeez, kid, I'm beginning to think you have a death wish." Baring his gleaming white teeth, Raziel added, "Takes a masochist to know one, I suppose."

Before Raziel could lift the cigarette to his lips again, Cyrus had drawn the knife and used it to pin him against the wall, digging the sharpest edge into the other man's throat. Surprise more than anything colored Raziel's face; he made a slight choking sound and let out a groan. "C'mon, you could at least buy me dinner first, sport."

Cyrus pressed the knife in deeper.

"Alright, alright, whaddya want? But get that thing outta my face, you little gremlin."

Cyrus took a small step back, keeping the knife raised in warning. Raziel snorted, muttering, "It's not the blade that makes the man." Louder this time, he continued, "I gotta admire that spunk, though. Out with it already."

But Cyrus had not been hiding his thoughts, and he didn't feel like repeating himself. He stood his ground, fingers so tense around the blade's handle that they had begun to ache.

Raziel ran a hand through his already-tousled hair, groaning again. "You know that thing about death wishes? I was jerking your chain, kid, I don't feel like dying tonight."

Cyrus took a deep breath, and as he exhaled it, he imagined every dark and twisted thing about himself leaving with it: every kill, every secret, every doubt about whether he was going down the correct path. He projected his pain and frustration outside himself, and was rewarded by a slight but noticeable shudder wracking Raziel's body.

Raziel paused, eyes getting a little wide, but kept his voice controlled. "You think I'm afraid of a little tantrum?"

Cyrus flipped the knife over and over between his fingers, and saw Raziel's eyes dart from it and back up to his face. He shrugged one shoulder flippantly, eyes still wide.

"Have it your way." Raziel turned his eyes to the street, giving it a once over before looking back to Cyrus. His next words were low and rushed, stumbling over each other. "There's this whole order of things, as you know, and no soul goes without its owner. Someone dies, someone is born to take their place. Eighteen years ago Acheron disrupted the natural balance and a single soul, for a single moment, went unassigned." He stared down at Cyrus, wearing a stoic mask. "Lord knows what that cost him, but you understand what I'm saying, yes?"

Cyrus stayed frozen, unresponsive.

"Alright," Raziel said, glancing again at the street. "Time for me to get the fuck outta dodge. I hear Rio is lovely this time of year."

It took no effort for Raziel to pry the knife from Cyrus's now pliant fingers. He didn't watch the demon, but heard the knife scraping against his skin. Before Raziel could make his escape, another presence, dark and smothering, filled the air. "Fuck," he breathed, just as Acheron's voice spoke behind Cyrus.

"You want to know what happened to your precious, goddamned soul?"

The knife fell from Raziel's hands, which flew up to clutch his throat as he began to sputter and gasp. Acheron stalked into view, curling his fingers into a fist, and Raziel seemed to choke harder. "You know what? I'll deal with you later." He sent his hand outward in a swinging motion, and Raziel's body went flying. It crashed into an alley wall and slid to the pavement limply.

Acheron had been holding back on Cyrus; he hadn't known demons were capable of that. Well, he didn't know much of anything when it came to Acheron. Then again, Acheron didn't know what he'd created very well either. The sight of what the demon had just done sent a thrill of fear through him, but also set his resolve. This wasn't a mentor standing before him.

It was an adversary.

When Cyrus was able to meet the demon's eyes, something in them made him shrink back. Acheron's true face, all sharp-edged bone and hellfire, was more prominent then than the human mask he wore.

"It's been right under your nose for months," Acheron snarled. "But you felt it, didn't you?"

Cyrus was reluctant to realize the truth but it all clicked in place. A soul had gone unassigned—Cyrus's soul. But all the natural laws dictated such energy could not be destroyed, so it had to have gone somewhere...

Tuesday. It explained her unnatural brightness—she had more than her fair share. It explained his attachment to her, his unwillingness to ever burn that bridge down.

And it explained why she had no power of her own. The day he'd confronted Acheron in the kitchen came to mind, and the comment the demon had made: the soul is a safeguard against magic.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Acheron glanced at Raziel's still body and sighed, saying, "Well, we'll have to take care of him--and everyone else like him eventually--and you'll help me."

Any walls Cyrus could have erected with a clearer head fell back, revealing the confused tangle of thoughts churning in his head; above it all was his need to retaliate, his refusal to play this game any longer. Acheron's response was sharp and immediate.

"Where do you think the girl is right now? And my reapers?"

Cyrus heard the threat in that, and he had no doubt: the demon wasn't bluffing.

"She was simply a side effect of what I really wanted," Acheron purred. "I don't need her."

He stepped nearer, shadows dancing in his eyes. "You don't either; you don't belong with humanity. You never have. Care to know why I'm so certain?"

"You've been a killer since the very beginning. The night I found you, I wanted to see what you were made of--" Acheron's eyes went unfocused as he recalled the memory, a smile playing on his lips. "Your mother didn't abandon you, boy. All I had to do was ask, and you slit her throat yourself as she slept."

The memory of the siren filled Cyrus's head, the sweetness in the imposter's voice as it portrayed itself as his mother. All the anguish caught up with him with enough force to knock him to his knees. A scream scratched up his throat, struggling to get loose, but he didn't make a sound.

Was his entire life a façade?

"The longer you fight your true nature..." Acheron was saying. He clucked his tongue, shaking his head slowly.

A freezing rain began to drizzle, plastering Cyrus's hair to his forehead. Even as shivers overcame his entire body, he just knelt there, letting it drench him.

"Is your curiosity finally sated?"

Cyrus looked down again, counting the cracks in the pavement until he got his erratic heartbeat under control. He gave a single, curt nod, letting Acheron taste his fear.

But he was finally able to throw up the curtain again, and Cyrus did not reveal the other things he was feeling.

Cyrus had to suppress his anger at the news he'd been given. He was a pawn, that was clear now; his very existence could be chalked up to the simple fact Acheron needed him. Cyrus was just a part of the plan to end the world as they knew it and raze a new one from the ashes.

It occurred to him he didn't know what something like that entailed. He'd been a good little soldier, a loyal servant, and never questioned the ideals Acheron had laid out: all humans caused was needless suffering, and the slate needed to be cleared. They had to start again, make a world where mothers didn't abandon their children and no one would feel alone ever again. Cyrus had been naive, and now the consequences of that were raining down all around him.

The most painful truth of all squeezed his heart with a clawed hand and twisted: his mother hadn't left him. He'd done that. This whole time Cyrus had been seeing the world through blood-tinted glasses; how much of it on his hands was completely and perfectly innocent?

By the time Cyrus noticed the movement out of the corner of his eyes, his own knife was pressed into Acheron's throat. Behind him, Raziel had a fistful of the other demon's hair, forcing Acheron's neck closer to the blade. In his ear he murmured, "This has been a good show, I'll admit, but face it. You're all foreplay and no action."

Raising his voice for Cyrus's benefit, Raziel continued, "I didn't realize before how much of your energy you had to have drained all those years ago. As for our brethren, they were too nervous to get past your little shield here, no one knew what to expect from him--but it sounds like the kid's grown a spine of his own. If he doesn't send you back to whatever dank cesspool you crawled up from, I will."

Face a stoic mask, Acheron replied in an emotionless voice, "Go ahead and try...but do you think the boy will let you? If my reapers feel their sire die, that girl he's so smitten with will die before either of you can lift a finger to stop it."

Raziel's eyes flashed up to meet Cyrus's. Setting his jaw, he said, "We all have to face our demons at some point."

He jerked the knife.

Or at least he tried to--but Raziel's arm didn't actually budge. He looked up from the unmoving weapon to Cyrus and cursed. Still beneath the blade but unharmed, amusement crept over Acheron's face; he stayed absolutely still as if completely comfortable.

"Don't you wonder why he's so hellbent on keeping you? He can't go through with his plans alone! None of us have that much power on our own and no one else wanted to help him exterminate humanity," Raziel shouted. "But if we don't do this now he'll go into hiding and he won't come back out until you're dead. Your lifetime will pass like mere hours for the likes of him, and by the time you're dead he may regain the strength to try all over again."

But Cyrus's thoughts were revolving around Tuesday right then, and the danger she was in. Though all good sense screamed at him there were more important matters at hand, all he wanted to do was get to her.

But there was someone else who could reach her faster.

Raziel stared at him in disbelief; he had gained enough control of his own limbs to dig the knife into Acheron's neck just enough to open a thin wound from which a single drop of blood dripped. His hand shook on the knife. Acheron still appeared care-free, staring Cyrus down--a challenge.

"Trust me, kid, you're not ready for this--" Raziel began to object, and as he spoke, a devilish smile split across Acheron's face.

Something in Cyrus's expression stopped Raziel short. He cursed again before withdrawing his hand only to fling it back down, cracking the hilt of the knife over Acheron's head. He fell to his knees, but the sinister smile never left his face. Still muttering under his breath, Raziel drew the inverted pentagram on himself with the blood that had begun to drip down the other demon's neck. He gave Cyrus one last look--full of anxiety--before the air seemed to shift around him and swallow him whole.

As soon as Raziel disappeared, Acheron stood, idly brushing off his suit.

"Alone at last," he crooned, straightening his collar and cracking his neck, rubbing it with one hand. "Maybe I am at half-power, but you're still not ready to take me on."

As Acheron began to advance on him, Cyrus heard a snuffling, scraping sound behind him and realized he wouldn't have to, not on his own.

Between the two of them, with the tension in the air darker than the starless night sky and hanging heavy, tangible, like fog, it wasn't a surprise they'd attracted the creatures. Cyrus didn't bother sparing them a glance, guessing from the multiple pairs of hobbling footsteps he heard that they had quite the gathering of rogue reapers on their hands. This was confirmed by Acheron when his lips pressed in a thin line, a twitch of annoyance starting above his eye.

Cyrus remembered the last time the demon had wiped out a sizable crowd of the beasts and how much it had seemed to exhaust him. To kill them, or turn them on Cyrus, would not be an easy feat--but he knew Acheron would manage it.

Cyrus didn't give him the chance.

Not thinking, not planning, not giving the approaching beasts a single glance, Cyrus imagined concentrating every drop of energy he had into a single, palpable force; all the while, he stared down Acheron with all the malice in his heart. Hearing the low growls resonating from the beasts' chests, Cyrus leapt out of the way just as they surged forward, cutting through the space between them in a single instant. They fell upon Acheron before he could react, half a dozen writhing, emaciated bodies with talons they put to good use.

As the demon flung one off his body, another took its place, and another, until he could do nothing to fend them off. In the whirling of teeth and claw and blood Cyrus could only make out brief images of the scene, seeing in one glimpse how they'd torn Acheron's suit to ribbons. In another glimpse, Cyrus could swear he saw Acheron meet his eyes--and smile.

He must have been seeing things, Cyrus was sure. He was sure of this for about three seconds, when he suddenly heard Acheron's voice clear in his head as if the demon were right beside him.

Have it your way, it said.

The demon stopped struggling against his attackers and Cyrus was alone in his own head again. He had enough time to think it had been too easy, much too easy.

Then came the explosion.