Cyrus was watching the blood run off his body and down the drain when the doorbell rang.

He flinched, and the light overhead flickered erratically. Only when he got his heart rate under control did it finally go still in submission. He could feel the soul he'd taken just hours before rushing through his veins like adrenaline; it likely had something to do with the electrical problems. Cyrus would have liked to take a moment to mull that over.

No time. Slipping on the tiles, Cyrus struggled into his clothes and passed a towel over his wet hair once. Just as the doorbell rang a second time, he flung open the front door. Without first acknowledging Tuesday, he looked back down the hall for any trace of Acheron. The only sound was his ragged breaths.

Cyrus spoke, and despite his usual timidness, his voice did nothing to disguise his frustration. "What are you doing here?"

Tuesday looked at him like Cyrus had just backhanded her. "I—I hadn't seen you in awhile, and I thought I would check in."

She was dressed in her Sunday best, a lacy white dress that came to a rest at her knees and a metallic cross hanging from her neck. The sight of it made Cyrus shiver.

Sparing another glance behind him, Cyrus bit his lip until a metallic taste flooded his mouth. It took a minute for him to find his voice again. When he did, it was quiet. "People tend to avoid me."

"Well, I think you're interesting."

His two worlds were colliding. A normal girl who apparently wanted his company was standing three feet away, but less friendly images were playing in his head. He and Acheron had spent the night scouting the drug den, and by the time Cyrus had gotten his fix, the sun was beginning the rise. The druggie's soul had nothing on the priest—you'll come to have a taste, but nothing will be as good as your first, Acheron had told him. It was still a massive shock to his system, and with Tuesday's warmth washing over him, Cyrus thought again about killing her.

"You should go—"

"Well, what's this?"

The sound of Acheron's voice, booming but jovial, caused Cyrus to flinch again. He gritted his teeth and didn't dare look behind him even as a hand fell on his shoulder and squeezed. Tightly.

Tuesday seemed blissfully unaware of the tension hanging in the air. Perhaps Acheron only wanted Cyrus to feel it, heavy enough to smother him. "Oh, uh—hi! You must be Cyrus's uncle...?"

"That's correct," Acheron responded, and the smile was evident in his voice. It was more chilling witnessing this façade than if he would just show what he was truly feeling. "And you must be why my nephew has been so distracted."

Cyrus's limbs locked in place. Tuesday simply blushed.

"She—was just going—" Cyrus bit out. His teeth had begun to chatter.

"Nonsense! You must invite your friend to stay for breakfast, it's only polite."

With that, Acheron's hand squeezed his shoulder once more and fell back to his side. Cyrus watched him disappear into the kitchen.

He tried to tell Tuesday she didn't have to and that she really should get going—but no more sound left his mouth.

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Tuesday looked between him and the floor, her cheeks still tinted pink. "Well....I suppose I can. Want to show me around?"

Cyrus stared at her, trying to will her to just turn around and walk away. Whatever power rushing through him that had messed with the bathroom light had retreated into hiding. Tuesday, unphased, slid past him and shut the door.

With mechanical movements, Cyrus walked through the halls with Tuesday in tow. He tried to imagine what her house, what any normal house, would look like. Anything but this blank canvas he called a home.

"Kinda small," Tuesday commented, as if that were the only thing wrong there. "But lots of potential."

Cyrus stared at the floor.

Tuesday glanced towards the kitchen before bumping his shoulder with her own. "C'mon now, cheer up. Your uncle seems very nice."

His jaw began to ache with how hard he was clenching his teeth. He didn't respond, couldn't possibly open his mouth now.

Still whispering, Tuesday said, "I'm sorry if this was a bad time. I just... you're my only friend, Cyrus."

That got him to look up. Her eyes were trained on the bare wall beside him. Working her jaw, she gave a little shrug and a nervous laugh.

"Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration. But you seem the most...real."

What did that even mean?

"Come along, children!" Acheron called from the kitchen where the smell of grease was emanating. Exchanging wide-eyed glances, Cyrus and Tuesday crept into the room.

It was surreal, seeing Acheron step in as a paternal figure. If he pinched himself, would he wake up from the nightmare? Even stranger than his new attitude, however, was the feast he'd spread across the dining table.

A tall stack of pancakes, plate of bacon, bowl of fruit and glasses of orange juice graced the normally bare table. Acheron had never cooked for him before. Hell, Cyrus had never even seen him eat. Used to a rather bland diet, the sight of the food should have had Cyrus salivating. At the moment he felt much more inclined to throwing up.

Seating himself across the table from Cyrus and Tuesday, Acheron appraised her with a single raised brow. Maybe it came off as polite interest, but Cyrus could almost see the gears turning in his head. "What is your name, dear?" Acheron asked, fixing himself a plate.

Cyrus sat motionless as Tuesday took the cue to fill her own plate. "Tuesday," she said, another blush spreading across her face. "Uh, Tuesday Hale."

"Hale," Acheron repeated slowly. For just a moment, cracks formed in his façade and Cyrus felt Tuesday shudder beside him. The darkness was gone from his tone just as quickly, before Tuesday probably even had time to understand what had just happened. "As in, Pastor Hale?"

She nodded. "Do you know him?"

"Oh, no, no, but I'm familiar with his work. He gives a wonderful service." He cleared his throat. "That's an interesting name you have there," Acheron added, but Cyrus saw his eyes were unfocused.

"It was my father's idea, he says it has to do with his faith. It was a Tuesday when he saw the light," she said. Eyes darting to Cyrus, she cleared her throat and laughed. "Tragic, I know, but he's silly like that."

The kitchen was quiet for several moments. Cyrus stared at his empty plate, and no one reprimanded him for it.

Tuesday stood up from the table, glancing at Cyrus. "Well, this was a lovely meal. Thank you, Mr..."

"Scott," Acheron provided, using the surname they gave to the few people curious enough to ask. He shook her hand, his eyes lingering on her too long for Cyrus's comfort. "Do feel free to visit any time." With a parting smile that triggered Cyrus's gag reflex, Acheron left the room.

Cyrus shoved back from the table, taking Tuesday by the arm and ushering her out the door. Just before he shut it, she said, "You don't have to be embarrassed. My family's a little weird, too."

"Goodbye," he managed to say. When he turned around, Acheron was suddenly inches away.

Cyrus cringed back, ready for the darkness to descend. After several moments of quiet, he met Acheron's eyes.

"Do not bother apologizing. It is in motion now," he said quietly, as cold and empty as their home. "She's drawn to you, and darkness begets darkness."

Acheron began to turn, but Cyrus projected all the anguish and confusion that had been building in him since Tuesday nearly ran him over. Acheron paused, not looking back at him. "Well, boy, out with it."

Licking his lips, Cyrus said, "Is she—human?"

He counted several beats of his heart before Acheron responded. Cyrus had to strain to hear him. "More so than you."

He began walking again, reaching the door and leaving him with these parting words:

"She would make a strong addition to our cause."