"There is no cause for alarm. We may only assume she left of her own accord, in which case she is weak. Janice Gladwin was unworthy of our cause and it will be in everyone's best interest to forget her. You are dismissed," Acheron concluded. Everyone but Cyrus filed out of the compound's basement.

Without looking up from his place in the center of the room, Acheron said, "You may leave now."

Limbs locked in place, Cyrus did not move. He just watched his mentor, who seemed to be waiting for him to exit before—what?

Eyes blazing like lit coals, Acheron said, "I have business to attend to, boy, and you need no part in it."

Cyrus wasn't backing down that easy. He had trusted Acheron his entire life: did that not mean anything? Was he not entitled to some kind of answer?

Acheron wasn't messing around, either; he stared Cyrus down until any normal person would have wilted under that sneer.

He wasn't a normal person.

One side of Acheron's mouth curled up, though the smile lacked any humor. His eyes were still cold and calculating. "You think you're ready to walk in my shoes? So be it."

He was wearing the same jet-black suit he never seemed to part with, and from the side pocket he produced a pocketknife. Cyrus watched, frozen, as Acheron undid the top few buttons of his suit and pushed aside the fabric. When he exposed his bare shoulder, Cyrus had to stifle a gasp.

Acheron's otherwise smooth, tanned skin was marred by a latticework of scars. They covered a thick strip along his shoulder, staining it white.

Just as Cyrus could bleed, he never doubted Acheron was able to be hurt; nonetheless, it was hard to imagine. In complete silence he watched as Acheron flicked open the pocketknife and opened a two-inch gash atop all the other scars; blood welled to the surface, a single thin stream trickling down his forearm.

Acheron stowed away the knife and used two fingers to smear away the blood before tracing them in a circular motion upon his left palm. He buttoned his suit back up and gestured Cyrus to come forward.

"Your turn."

He swallowed, hard, but knew there was no getting out of this without losing his pride or testing the demon's patience. Cyrus crept forward. Acheron seized his arm, holding it in place while he made a similar cut on Cyrus's own shoulder. He managed to hold back a wince or any other sign of his discomfort.

"It doesn't matter where the blood comes from, but at least this is easy to hide," Acheron explained as he used his fingers like a paintbrush, swirling Cyrus's blood around on his palm. When Acheron pulled back, Cyrus saw he'd drawn an upside-down pentagram.

"I've been around the world and back and never boarded a ship or plane. All it takes is a small sacrifice—" At this, Acheron nodded to the blood on their hands. "And somewhere full of pain."

He turned his eyes to the center of the room, kneeling to the floor and placing his bloodied hand to it, symbol facing the concrete. "This place may look empty but the damage you've inflicted upon a human soul here left it's mark. Residual negative energy, that's what fuels my travel."

Reaching out with his other hand, Acheron looked at Cyrus expectantly. "Demons have free roam of anywhere dark, and they can bring along a passenger. Have you changed your mind?"

It took a moment to remember how to shake his head, then Cyrus joined Acheron in a crouch on the floor. Acheron pressed his bare hand into Cyrus's bloodied one, murmured something under his breath, and the room began to tilt.

Cyrus watched the bare concrete walls melt away until the sight made him dizzy. With his eyes clenched, he could still see vague flashes of light dance outside his eyelids. Cyrus tried to reach a hand up to block it, but couldn't feel his limbs. Then came the sensation of an elevator dropping, multiplied by a hundred; he could swear he felt as his organs nearly fell out his body. Wind tore at his clothes, took his breath away, but didn't make a sound.

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When Cyrus was able to open his eyes again, he saw he was laying flat on his back, limbs outstretched as if he'd fallen. Above him, Acheron stood, smoothing his suit down without so much as a flyaway hair. "Get up," he said, "quickly now."

Cyrus stumbled to his feet, staggering a few steps. Acheron caught him by the arm, letting go when Cyrus regained his balance.

"There," Acheron said just above a whisper. "Look over there."

Turning his attention to his surroundings, it took a moment for Cyrus to absorb it all. They were surrounded by trees marching into oblivion in all directions, trees that towered dozens of feet above them and curved to blot out nearly all sunlight. Everything in Cyrus's wake was grey and army green. The air was chilled and restricting, smothering him with a blanket of coldness that seeped deep into his bones. Cyrus didn't know what he was supposed to be looking at; then he caught a flicker of movement through the trees.

Something to his other side caught his eye, and Cyrus whipped his head that way to see more movement in the distance; he couldn't make out what it was. A branch snapped and echoed throughout the forest, practically the only sound. When Cyrus turned in the direction of it, he saw yet another blur of movement.

"They're attracted to anything cold and dark and feed on pain," Acheron whispered beside him. "So this is the perfect place to find them: Aokigahara, where hundreds of people have come to die."

As he spoke, a chill ran down Cyrus's spine. He strained to make out what he was seeing in the near-darkness.

Acheron said, "Reapers. These are reapers, or what's left of them."

From what Cyrus knew about reapers from Bune and Moloch, it took another demon to sire them, and it took immense power. He couldn't connect those ideas to the many forms flashing by around him.

"You think I'm the only demon out there, boy? You're off by several hundred." After saying this, Acheron fell quiet. This quietness was different; Cyrus could feel the tension in the air like a live wire, and noted all of his hair was standing on end.

Behind Cyrus, something rustled. He spun around to come face to face with a pair of wide, yellowish eyes just several feet away. He tried to scramble back but Acheron's hand landed against his back, keeping him in place. When Cyrus shot a glance behind him, he saw more of those terrible eyes had joined the first, forming a circle around them.

He counted eleven pairs, and each one was devoid of anything but of a feral wildness.

One of them stepped through the trees and Cyrus could finally make out its entire body. Everything that had been human about it sagged off the skeleton—greyish, mottled flesh—and the face was cavernous, sunken in and accentuating the crazed eyes. The mouth snapped open and shut and the hands reached forward with long, jagged nails. Perhaps the worst part was, the last scraps of clothing still clinging to the body were caked in blood and viscera.

Voice dropped even lower and carefully monotone, Acheron said, "This is what happens to them when they take in too many souls."

The reaper, or whatever it was now, in front of them took a tentative step forward. From behind came the sounds of shuffling feet and leaves crunching. Cyrus watched the main ghoul sink into a crouch, curling its claws.

Then his ears began to ring. It slowly increased in frequency until Cyrus had to clamp his hands over his ears, which did absolutely nothing against the sound. Beside him, Acheron stood deathly still, eyes glowing brighter than their usual crimson.

Making a hoarse, gravelly sound deep in its throat, the monster in front of them pounced—

And sailed overhead, landing with a thump on one of the creatures behind them. The two reapers let out unnatural shrieks, raking their claws over each other and rolling around so fast they were practically just a blur. All around, the rest of the reapers followed suit, attacking each other.

Gasping, unable to catch his breath, Cyrus turned to Acheron to see a tiny smirk playing on his lips.

Too many thoughts were fighting to come out on top in his head just like the feuding beasts. Acheron was somehow able to make sense of them and said, "I merely put a suggestion in their heads. Humans are more difficult, and usually it plays out as temptations; they still have their free will about them to revolt against the command. But these reapers are too far gone to have any self-control."

All the while, the sounds of snapping jaws and unearthly screams ensued. Unable to look away, Cyrus watched as the beasts tore each other apart, leaving twitching, bloody skeletons in their wake. When only one beast was left standing, it took its own claws to its chest and curled them inwards, yanking out a chunk of flesh.

In its own hand, the creature's greyish heart gave a few last pumps before going still; the reaper crashed to the ground.

Bodies. Bodies lay mutilated in every direction. It was a bit much even for him, and Cyrus's stomach twisted in knots. He couldn't fathom what had called for all this carnage.

"Taking out the trash," said Acheron. "That is all I have done."

Cyrus couldn't disagree there. He tried to imagine these creatures roaming free to stalk the night and terrorize any unlucky, nearby soul—and shuddered.

Before Cyrus could wonder what would be done with all the carcasses, each one began to shimmer very slightly. It looked like hot pavement did on a particularly hot summer's day, how it seemed to warp and wave. Then each body crumbled before his very eyes. Every shred of skin molted off and disintegrated; the bones blackened and broke off into undetectable pieces.

"Ashes to ashes," Acheron murmured.

Dust to dust.