Cyrus dreamt again that night. However, when the darkness overtook him, he didn't see Tuesday.

He saw himself.

Cyrus had never seen a movie before but imagined it was like this: from the outside looking in, watching a character perform. It didn't feel like he was himself. It was completely real, though.

His dream replayed his second kill.

He and Acheron waited in the shadows outside the drug den for hours until a lone figure came stumbling out. The man passed inches away from Cyrus, drenched in the smell of cigarettes and booze and oozing a twitchy sort of energy that was just tangible. He walked along the side of the house into the darkest corner of the nearly nonexistent yard.

The street was deserted. Inside, the faint beat of a techno song reverberated from the house. Acheron, just above a whisper, said, "They won't notice. And even if someone did..."

The demon was as black as night, the only visible features being his eyes: two red pinpoints in the darkness. Beside him, Cyrus looked more like a little boy, his shoulders hunched and at full height only reaching the other man's chest.

In a voice that could cut through steel, Acheron said, "No one believes a druggie."

Cyrus watched himself, disconnected from the scene, as he pulled the ceremonial dagger from his pocket. Some of the priest's blood was still clinging to the hilt; a dozen washes hadn't scraped the last of it away.

The crackhead had dropped his pants, relieving himself in the grass. Cyrus waited as the man zipped up and turned, shuffling by again. He stuck out his foot and the man went sprawling without a sound.

Still in a stupor, he barely struggled. Cyrus was on him in an instant, pressing the man's body back down into the concrete. He could feel his bones. He could hear his heart thumping erratically. And when he put the knife to the tender skin of the man's throat, he felt his blood. It had given way to his knife so easily, like that neck had been made for the gutting.

The man shook beneath him, but had nowhere near the strength it would take to throw Cyrus off. He choked on the blood, fingers spasming in vain at his slit throat. And then the dream went off the rails, showing him something he didn't remember. Something that hadn't happened, when until that point, it had been a picture-perfect reenactment.

Gurgling over the blood, the man said, "What goes around....comes back...."

He twitched several more times in Cyrus's grasp before going still. The dream melted away and he awoke on the floor, tangled in his blanket.

The second thing he noticed: shards of glass were strewn about the floor, the mattress, and he even picked some out of his hair. The bedroom door opened, and both he and Acheron slowly turned their gaze upward to the empty base where his ceiling light had used to be. It had shattered in his sleep.

"You're getting stronger," Acheron murmured, voice as cold as it had been in the dream. That's all he said before leaving the room again.

Cyrus stared at the remnants of the light, still picking pieces out of his hair. A sliver or two lodged in his skin but he didn't register the pain.

Beyond any sort of manifestations of his energy that deterred people from him, Cyrus had never affected the physical world. After his first kill, he'd been able to put Delilah at ease, if only temporarily. After his second, he was—what, breaking shit now?

He picked up a particularly large shard of glass, throwing his whole focus into cracking it; nothing happened. Strong emotions were triggering these responses, not any exertion of control over himself and his surroundings. He had been desperate with Delilah; the dream must have really shaken him, even in unconsciousness.

Cyrus threw the shard across the room. Hitting the wall, it finally broke into pieces.

He had a few bones to pick with Acheron. For all the previous day, he'd been waiting for the wrath he'd been promised to rain down on him. Maybe keeping Tuesday from his knowledge didn't constitute a lie. Whatever the reason, Acheron didn't touch upon the subject. Then he saw what Cyrus just did and can't even talk it over with him.

He was grateful for Acheron, that would never change. He had given Cyrus a home when his own parents abandoned him; he gave him community and a purpose. But there were things Acheron was keeping from him.

He wasn't surprised by Cyrus's newfound abilities. He knew something was off about Tuesday, but just had to be cryptic and conveniently avoid truly answering Cyrus's question.

Cyrus stood and squared his shoulders. It was time to confront him.

He found Acheron in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and staring at the ceiling. In one hand he held a steaming mug of coffee, black—the only thing Cyrus had seen him drink beyond the orange juice he'd set out the morning before. Acheron didn't acknowledge him until Cyrus cleared his throat.

Stolen novel; please report.

Acheron sighed through his nose, pinching the bridge of it and regarded him with a scowl. "Well?"

Caught under that piercing stare, Cyrus fought the urge to squirm. Something rose up in him, fueling him with the courage necessary to let out a barrage of questions, out loud.

"What am I?"

"You know there's nothing to compare," Acheron said around a drink of coffee. "Something soulless."

"But what does that mean? What's a soul matter for?"

He narrowed his eyes at Cyrus but answered, albeit in a clipped tone. "Above all else, it serves as a safeguard against magic."

That made enough sense. Humans, and even Bune and Moloch, had souls, and none of them could compare to Cyrus or Acheron.

Cyrus knew how Acheron had come into being—leftover negative energy from a collection of human deaths mingled together and created him. That's how demons were formed. Acheron had never held back that much information from him, at least. He also knew what Bune and Moloch were: not demons, as they had been born, though somewhere over a century before. Ancient power bound them to their eternal youth and energy from souls kept them going. Reapers, that's what they were—fated to kill in order to survive. With all that in mind, how had Cyrus turned out how he was? And what the hell was Tuesday?

Cyrus could tell he was edging close to a line Acheron wouldn't allow him to cross, but asked anyway, "Does Tuesday have a soul?"

Acheron drained his mug, letting it clatter in the sink. "Yes. Now stop with this incessant chatter." He strode out from the room.

Cyrus sensed he was telling the truth, so he really was an outcast. The person he connected with most was still leagues away from whatever he was.

And Acheron was still holding back.

He wasn't about to give Cyrus any of the answers he truly wanted. Cyrus would have to dig them up himself.

He started with the one he thought would be somewhat easy to find.

Cyrus hiked to the nearest subway station and hopped the train to Queens. From there, it was only a couple blocks to an internet cafe. With no access to it at home, he'd quickly learned where to go when he wanted to be updated on current events.

There was one station empty. For a moment, he focused on his breathing, hyper aware of the people so close on either side. Acheron had been right; Cyrus was on his way to becoming a junkie. His first thought was of the faint energy he felt coming from his neighbors. He forced himself to remember he couldn't get greedy.

He couldn't play God.

It didn't matter how powerful he felt in the moment. Cockiness equalled a death sentence; Cyrus may have been the black sheep there, but he could die just like anyone else. He wasn't invincible.

Gritting his teeth, Cyrus launched a search engine and typed in PASTOR HALE, NEW YORK CITY.

It brought up several results, but one picture caught his eye: a man in his forties with blonde hair and the same greyish eyes as Tuesday. Cyrus clicked the link.

It took him to the page of the Cross Fellowship Church. He remembered Tuesday saying the name now, but it wasn't familiar beyond that. Scanning it over, Cyrus got the impression it was one of the biggest churches in the area.

That probably explained Acheron's expression when Tuesday told him about her father. Churches like this were the biggest contender with their own teachings. They preached to the masses not to be tempted by sin—and basically everything Acheron believed in had to be foul in the eyes of the Lord.

He sat there for a few minutes, mulling it all over. Cyrus had no desire to return home. Acheron hadn't stopped him from leaving, and was likely deep in whatever business he had at the compound, but going back to a empty house wasn't any more appealing.

It occurred to him there was nothing stopping him from seeing Tuesday. He couldn't deny he was drawn to her, just as Acheron had observed; something had snapped in him when Acheron said she'd make a strong addition. He felt very, well he couldn't put a finger on it—either protective or possessive of her.

He wanted one thing to be his. And this thing, he didn't want to let a demon anywhere near it.

But could he keep his personal life separate from his other side? Cyrus had no idea; he'd never had anything 'personal' before.

All of it didn't matter. He already made his decision five minutes before.

Cyrus didn't have a phone. He had no way of contacting her.

But he knew where he might find her. Jotting down the address—it was there in Queens—Cyrus made his leave.

§

She was sitting with her head bowed, hands clasped and lips moving silently. Cyrus stood at the back of the church, forgetting how to move his legs. He looked between the girl and the life-size crucifix affixed to the opposite wall.

Jesus stared down at him morosely.

It felt like a signal to turn back. He didn't belong here. It's not that Cyrus thought God would smite him down—he didn't buy into the whole pearly gates thing—but the things that made him different felt accentuated here.

It felt like there was a spotlight trained on him, but it was actually rather dark in the church. Cyrus weighed each step he took forward, all the while thinking he should turn back.

But Tuesday's energy tugged at him, and he had no choice but to answer the call.

He settled beside her in the pew, staring up at the cross. Cyrus felt the girl flinch beside him, then heard her sharp intake of breath.

When she spoke, he heard the smile on her voice, even though she spoke in a whisper. "Hey, stranger. Will you pray with me?"

Cyrus didn't respond. She took his hand in hers, and he jumped like it was a live wire. Being near her had nothing on touching her—her energy was like electricity, and he thought he liked being shocked.

Tuesday bowed her head again, but Cyrus just watched her. Her lips moved again, but this time she didn't pray silently.

"Dear Lord," she began quietly, mindful of the others in nearby pews. She began to list off names, asking God to protect those in heaven. Cyrus was more focused on the feeling of his hand in hers until she said, "Take care of Cyrus's parents. Take care of James."

He ripped his hand away, scooting a few inches away on the bench. After a moment, Tuesday followed until again, there was virtually no space between them. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay to be sad sometimes, you know," she murmured. "It's okay to be vulnerable."

Cyrus's next breath ached in his chest. Was it okay to feel nothing? He wanted to know what she'd say to that, but was unable to voice it.

"You fit right in," she whispered, nodding to the other silent churchgoers.

Cyrus didn't think silence was fitting for a church. Faith was a messy thing. Faith was accepting pain and somehow even celebrating it. It was the the blood he spilled and the fact that none of it mattered, not in the big picture.

That was the thing about Tuesday, though. She found the brightness in all the dark places.

Even him.

His body felt very heavy then. Cyrus shrugged her hand from his shoulder, debating whether it was time he go. Tuesday bit her lip, letting her hair fall in front of her face. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he changed course—and rested his head against her shoulder.

They sat like that for a long time.