Seeing Tuesday again had calmed the monster in him for the briefest of moments; back out in the cold, and having drained his energy in such a reckless way, quickly had darkness crawling back out of whatever recesses it had retreated to.

Cyrus distracted himself for the first half of the day obsessing over Tuesday's aunt. She was human, Cyrus was sure; he'd been in the company of demons and reapers, and those creatures had a much more oppressive energy about them. But her intuition, or whatever it was, had doubt creeping along his spine. What did he know? The world was looking to be increasingly complex with each passing day. It wasn't far-fetched to assume there were beings Cyrus was not yet aware of out there.

When he had no other suspicions to toss around, the awareness of his demons came rushing back. It wasn't bad, not yet. He'd been dealing with it for a very long time and this was nothing new. However, the little drug-induced massacre was no on Cyrus's mind, and the idea of anything like that happening again had him shaking even harder. He didn't want to test his limits. That's how he ended up outside a liquor store, offering nearly the last of his cash--only a few twenties were left in the wallet--to anyone willing to score him some liquid amnesia.

After just half an hour of begging, someone grabbed the cash from Cyrus's hand and entered the store. Hoping they wouldn't decide to use it all on themself, he turned to the bar next door; the large flatscreen was visible through the window. From his spot on the sidewalk, he could just make out the image of a house on fire, thick plumes of smoke reaching blackish fingers towards the sky. Cyrus couldn't read the reporter's lips, but saw the bold caption: SIX DEAD IN POSSIBLE ELECTRICAL FIRE.

Cyrus turned from the window, stomach churning.

The man who'd taken his money exited the shop then, glancing up and down the street before thrusting a paper sack into Cyrus's hands and hurrying away. That had been easier than expected; oh to live in a land flowing with milk and honey...

This thought brought a half-delirious laugh to Cyrus's lips as he found a deserted alleyway to hide him from the street and huddled down there. It was an era of firsts, but each one made the next come easier. He twisted the top off the bottle without hesitation.

He sputtered over the first sip. By the time the bottle was nearly bone-dry, his throat welcomed it without protest. When it was gone, Cyrus's thoughts had grown sluggish but it hadn't completely numbed the memories forcing their way through the fog. In movements that felt slow and awkward, he flung the bottle away from himself. It crashed into the opposite wall several feet away, shards of glass raining down.

Cyrus's eyes strayed to a particularly large shard, the neck of the bottle still intact, tapering off into sharp little teeth. The sight of it needled him until its significance came to light. It reminded him of the weapon Tuesday had used to kill Pastor Hale.

And it reminded him of something else. Knowing he wouldn't like the truth that was struggling to unveil itself in the haze of his mind, Cyrus thumped his head with his hands and attempted to think of anything else.

He did not have that luxury. The memory was faded and warped and barely there at all; he couldn't picture it, but a label of its events branded itself into Cyrus's thoughts: that was how he had killed his mother. All it had taken was a small suggestion and a jagged piece of glass.

A sob wracked his body with such force Cyrus had no choice but to curl in on himself in an attempt to keep himself together. He hadn't cried before or after that night on the beach, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

He couldn't bear being alone with himself much longer, but it would be unwise to attempt revisiting Tuesday's house if that aunt of hers were home--and besides, Cyrus couldn't explain what he was feeling. Not to her. This was yet another secret he wasn't ready to share.

Seeing no other options, and mind still a cluttered whiskey-scented mess, he concentrated on Raziel. It went from a general thought to a request to downright begging; Cyrus had surely leapt off the deep-end. Face-down in the asphalt, he mumbled into it, "Is this thing on?" He remained alone for several more minutes before a voice, twisted in repulse, replied.

"Are you drunk?"

Cyrus's enusing groan was muffled by the ground.

"Well," Raziel remarked. "I guess you sorta took my advice. And went against it at the same time; I said I wanted you sober."

Cyrus lifted his face, though he was uneager to face the demon. Keeping his eyes on the ground, he shrugged one shoulder, trying to explain in his thoughts why it had seemed like a halfway decent idea.

"You'll never curb your demon like this."

Anger rose through the haze then, hot and quick. Looking up finally through narrowed eyes, Cyrus spat, "Then help me."

No emotion revealed itself in Raziel's expression. He stared at Cyrus blankly before rubbing a weary hand across his forehead. "I suppose anything's better than having you free to roam the streets." The once careful mask hardened then, twisting Raziel's lips down. "Here's the deal, short straw: you listen to me, you mind me, and don't you dare bitch about it. You want my help? Fine, but don't forget you're in my debt."

Cyrus didn't dare to voice his next thoughts, couldn't even think the name--but still, the image of Acheron dying came to mind. This was followed by some of Cyrus's first interactions with Raziel and the latter's speech about favors he would come to collect. Cyrus could have bet Acheron's death and foiled plans were precisely the favor Raziel would have been referring to.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

The paleness of Raziel's skin was chased by a sudden rush of red that made the color of his eyes burn even hotter. "You think that's what I wanted?"

His hands were suddenly fisted in Cyrus's shirt, lifting him a few inches off the ground to stare into Raziel's eyes, inches away.

His anger washed over Cyrus and stirred the darkness inside him. He winced and struggled to back away but Raziel kept a tight grip on him, breaths ragged, eyes crazed. Then the demon loosened his hands, shook out his fists and curled his lip. Quietly he said, "You know nothing," before rising again.

His words weren't aligning with Cyrus's memories, who couldn't help but recall how easily Raziel had put a knife to Acheron's throat and threatened his life. With a dry chuckle, Raziel shook his head slowly. "There's a difference between want and need. It had to be done," he conceded. "But I did not want any of this. Any of it."

"But what does that mean--"

"Not," Raziel hissed between clenched teeth, raising a hand in warning, "now." He pinched the bridge of his nose, hair flopping down in his eyes and masking whatever emotions might have been playing there. After a very tense moment, he brushed it away and glanced back down to Cyrus. "I'll have you know, I was having a very good time before you had to go and rudely interrupt."

Could have ignored me, Cyrus thought.

"Easier said than done, with your whining voice in my head. Sorta kills the mood," Raziel retorted. He sighed heavily, rubbing his face again before saying, "Well, as I said, better to have you off the streets."

Pulling a knife from the waistband of his jeans, Raziel opened a small cut on his upper arm. Cyrus watched with nausea slowly growing more intense. His head was spinning and the last thing he needed was to make himself even more dizzy; his last time travelling by a demon's methods was less than graceful.

"Suck it up," Raziel muttered, grabbing Cyrus's arm.

Doing anything to stall the moment, he piped up, "I thought you need to do this where something, uh, bad happened."

With amusement softening his eyes, Raziel said, "It's a dark and scary world we live in, pal, there's hardly a place untouched by misery in some form or another." Seeing the memories of Cyrus's first travel, how his mentor had made a fuss about using the area James Crocker had died, Raziel added, "Acheron had a flair for the dramatic." His voice grew more bitter on that last line, and he cut off immediately with yet another sigh. "Ready?"

He did not wait for a response. Cyrus had just enough time to squeeze his eyes shut before the world melted and gave way to darkness. The sensation of falling had him tense and sickened; then he felt his shoulders pressing into something hard and forced himself to look.

He was splayed out across sterling-colored vinyl flooring. In his line of sight, a black wing-toed shoe tapped impatiently. Pressing one hand against the pulsing ache that started in his temples, Cyrus struggled to a sitting position.

"That was kinda pathetic to watch," Raziel murmured. "Like a cat falling from a tree."

Ignoring him, Cyrus took in his surroundings. To his immense surprise, they were in a mundane-looking living room. Well, it was more than mundane--about as high class of a place Cyrus had ever seen. It was chic and modern, all glass and steel and mellow black-and-white color scheme. For the most part, it was a wide-open space, though an electric fireplace that resembled a television screen flickered with a live flame on one wall. To the right, nearly the entire wall was dominated by a bank of windows overlooking the city opening out onto a balcony. To the left was an apparent kitchen, a tall island with transparent swivelling bar stools parked alongside it blocking most of Cyrus's view.

"What'd you expect, a dungeon?"

Before Cyrus could respond, a new figure strutted into view and he couldn't help his first instinctual reaction: to cower away. The newcomer appraised him with amusement in her red eyes.

"Well, hello there," she purred, siddling alongside Raziel and draping an arm around him. "You must be Cyrus. I've heard so much about you."

If he couldn't see her true form or feel her presence--similar to that of Raziel's--Cyrus would not know what she truly was. The woman couldn't have been anything older than her mid-twenties, with soft features and a build nearly as slender as Cyrus's. Past her true scarlet eyes, the human ones were doe-like and devoid of malice. Despite this, Cyrus couldn't tamp down his paranoia; he had gotten used to being open and didn't have enough time to block his thoughts.

"Oh, honey," the woman murmured, cocking her head. "Just consider me Switzerland. I'm a lover, not a fighter," she said with a smile creeping onto her red-painted lips. To emphasize her point, she turned her face into the crook of Raziel's neck, tracing a path up it with the tip of her nose before stopping at his ear and tugging on it gently with her teeth.

Raziel cleared his throat, face blushing scarlet, and he coughed into one fist. "Yes, well, ah. Do you think you could give us a minute, Vay?"

"Sure thing, handsome," she replied, a wicked grin still in place. Then she turned and strolled lithely from the room.

Cyrus raised one sharp eyebrow.

"Nevaeh is, ah--well, your impression that every single demon out there wants your head on a silver platter is a tad misguided. Not all of us want a war and not all of us want to put the antichrist on a leash."

Cyrus bit back anger at the slight and tried to tamp down his shock. Still, it was a lot to take in, just the idea of another friendly demon alone. Even harder to comprehend was just how friendly this one was, with Raziel at least--

"Anyhow," Raziel said forcefully, clapping his hands together. "You're in for a wicked hangover, kid. Why don't you go nurse it." He took Cyrus by the elbow, helping him up from the floor, and led him down the hall. There were four doors in total; Raziel shoved him through the first one on the right.

It was a small bedroom, though bigger than Cyrus's old one; a bed was made up with pristine white sheets that looked to be fresh out of their packaging. Besides a tiny oak nightstand with a glass lamp, the room was bare.

"We don't have many guests, you're in luck," Raziel said, pushing Cyrus towards the bed before inching back towards the door. "Sleep it off and we can talk in the morning."

Before he could disappear, Cyrus said, a thousand questions still whirling through his mind, "For someone who's adamant against being my babysitter...you sure are being helpful."

Raziel snorted. "Yeah, well, if this baby throws a tantrum the whole fucking world ends."

It wasn't a satisfying answer. Cyrus crossed his arms, wondering why the demon really cared. Sure, getting Cyrus off the streets was good news for New York's general populace but why did Raziel take that task upon himself?

"Anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?" Raziel muttered, scratching his neck, but his resolve seemed to cave because he kept talking. "Eh, yaknow what? Keeping secrets from you didn't do the last guy any good. You wanna know why I'm so invested?"

Raziel took one more step back into the room, shadows dancing across his face and the fire stoking in his eyes. He almost appeared...sad. The only time Cyrus had ever seen such mourning, such apparent sorrow, on the demon's face was when Raziel had found him in Central Park with a new kill.

"I'm part of the reason you exist, kid."