For several weeks, Delilah White had been making the hour-long trip to Long Island to get a feel for Second Advent and her possible place in it. During her first venture through the woods in order to reach the compound, she'd clung to Cyrus's hand and cast weary looks back at Bune. The whole way there she talked about her son. At one point in that first hike, Delilah commented, "He was quiet like you, too. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

By her third and fourth trip, Delilah's discussions about her son became less frequent as she settled into the new family Second Advent provided for her. She even called the cabin "quaint" and no longer needed the safety blanket she'd found in Cyrus.

In fact, by that point she'd begun to avoid him like most people tended to do.

It was the day of her initiation as a whole and true member that Cyrus realized he had become a problem.

All of Delilah's prior visits had taken place in the cabin's living room just as the rest of the members' had. They consisted of weekly prayer circles and group discussions about virtually anything under the sun pertaining to faith. Instead of praying to a God that didn't listen, new members were asked to simply direct their thoughts into the universe. Delilah had taken her tasks in stride and now stood in the same field Cyrus had a month before, both contemplating their role in this world.

By now, she had no problem taking an oath to uphold and protect Second Advent's ideals. With all the members forming a ring around her, Delilah stood straight and proud in the middle, as healthy as Cyrus had seen her. She wouldn't meet his eyes though, not anymore. The members on either side of Cyrus gave him a wide berth, not looking at him either.

It was like he didn't exist to them. Or rather, they didn't want him to.

Cyrus bit his tongue and forced himself to pay attention to the proceedings. He'd seen plenty of initiations in the past few years, but never one for someone he'd recruited himself.

Acheron stood before the woman, dressed all in black: the color of death and new beginnings.

"Will you help us purify the world, Delilah?"

"I will."

"Are we ready to accept Delilah as our own?"

"We are," the thirty-some members forming the circle all said in unison.

Acheron struck a match and Delilah's eyes stared at the dancing flame. He let it fall to the small pile of firewood at his feet, which had been drenched in accelerant. A fire burst to life.

"It's time," he prompted emotionlessly.

From across the circle, Cyrus could see the woman swallow hard. After a moment's hesitation, she produced a photograph from her pocket.

Wetting her lips, Delilah said, "Do I really have to do this?"

"In order to fully appreciate our duty we must shed all attachments to our past life. They serve only as distractions in the way of our true purpose."

Nodding slowly, she bit her lip and dropped the photo into the fire.

The memory of Delilah's son curled and blackened at the edges before quickly succumbing to the flame. In seconds, he was ash.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

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After the ceremony, Acheron confronted Cyrus alone.

"There have been complaints."

The image of Delilah and all the others avoiding him came to mind. He didn't bother projecting this to Acheron; it was clear they were already on the same page.

"Well," his mentor drawled. "Come with me."

As they made their way out of the woods, Cyrus asked aloud, "What are we doing?"

Acheron turned to regard him with a dark gleam in his eyes. "Hunting."

It took half an hour to reach Queens from the compound, and from there the two entered the subway. By the time they reached Brooklyn, night had fallen. The city didn't mind: a string of buildings rising to scrape the sky lit up, a thousand torches in the night. Cyrus ventured into the city frequently, but he'd never been at night. Tonight wasn't the time for sight-seeing, though.

Quiet, both physically and in his head, Cyrus trailed after his mentor. Acheron led him down the brightly lit streets until they turned into dark ones, the kind out of a movie where the character either gets mugged or kidnapped. The tall and beautiful buildings became worn-down, dilapidated ones; the standard chain link fences grew barbed wire.

And then came the people.

Pale, emaciated, twitchy people; they lurked in shadows and alleys and peered out at them. Acheron came to a stop. In front of them was a sullen looking house, boards nailed over the windows and weeds growing tall in the cracks of the sidewalk. Through the gaps of the boards, Cyrus could see a faint light emanating from inside.

Acheron eyed the house with–well, Cyrus didn't entirely know what to make of it. He almost wanted to label it lust. Blood lust. "The place is filled with suffering. Can you feel it?"

He couldn't.

"No matter. Inside are some humans you may relate to."

Cyrus furrowed his brows.

"This is a drug den," Acheron said. "And you are on the path to becoming a junkie."

His mouth went dry. Cyrus couldn't look at the sad little house any longer, and set a questioning stare upon Acheron. He replayed the mentor's earlier words in his head: Hunting.

"In due time. I didn't take you here solely to prove a point." Acheron flourished a hand at the house. "From now on, you will have to be more discreet. No more priests, and you will have to keep your need under control. But when you must take a life..." Acheron nodded, still eyeing the house. "It has to be someone no one will miss. Someone no one will look for."

Acheron could only read from Cyrus what he wanted him to, and Cyrus did not let on to his disgust. "Am I..." He couldn't say the words. "Now?"

Placing a hand on his back, Acheron steered him back down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

"Holding life and death in your hands is the highest of power and you will treat it with respect." Seeing the look on Cyrus's face, Acheron continued, "I know. We will back, and soon. But I need to see how long you can hold yourself back."

They did not speak the rest of the way home.

When they reached the house, Cyrus was exiled to his bedroom with the instructions to stay put as long as he could manage. When the need became too much, Acheron told him, and only then–they would go back.

On the first day, Cyrus sat cross-legged on his mattress and meditated.

By the time the second day came and went, Cyrus's could not keep himself still any longer. He paced back and forth across the room. His mind wouldn't stay blank, and the first thing to come to it was Tuesday.

He hadn't dreamt of her in awhile. What did that mean?

Cyrus wished he could consult Acheron on the matter—What was she? If anyone could know, it would be his mentor. Acheron was almost as old as the Earth, after all, created from the remnants of the first dark and tainted souls. If humanity was a spectrum, Cyrus was closer to the human end than him; he had been born, after all. So where did Tuesday fit on that spectrum?

He couldn't explain it, but Cyrus imagined she was more human than anyone.

On the fourth day, even the ability to form conscious thought left him. Watching his hands shake, Cyrus recalled the junkie comment Acheron had made. It was clear he was right. The human soul was the strongest force on the planet, and he craved to taste it again. Besides, he was growing stronger and needed something to fuel himself. It was evident when he'd naturally turned Delilah to their side on his first try, but slowly lost his connection with her. It was like expecting a car to run on oxygen instead of gasoline.

Still, he had expectations for himself and was sure Acheron did as well. Cyrus only came out on that fifth day when room began to spin and nearly face-planted then and there.

He didn't have to go far. The darkness pouring off him must have been strong; Acheron waited outside Cyrus's bedroom, leaning against the wall.

He met his mentor's eyes and nodded.