In the space occupied by eleven corpses just moments before, Acheron laid his palm in the grass. With the blood of fresh wounds, both he and Cyrus had repainted the pentagrams. He attempted to brace himself, thinking that since he knew what to expect, this second trip through darkness would be easier.

It wasn't.

Again Cyrus's stomach dropped; again, he couldn't breathe or move his limbs. He tried to keep his eyes open this time, but a searing light blinded him.

He landed on his back just like before, but this time he felt the impact. First Cyrus's body was tumbling through empty space and time, then a whistling sound rang in his ears—and he landed with a smack on the concrete. It knocked whatever breath he'd managed to maintain out him. Cyrus curled in on himself, every limb aching.

When he was able to pull himself together, he saw Acheron was standing over him: eyebrows raised, arms crossed. "Not so easy, hmm?"

Cyrus's mind was already off the pain, the images of the corpses trapezing through his head. "How many times," he said, gasping, "have you done that?"

Acheron knew he was referring his casual slaughter of nearly a dozen reapers, not his strange form of travel. "Lost count somewhere in the 18th century."

Cyrus detected a weariness in his voice he hadn't heard before. He rose to his feet, reaching out with all his power and trying to interpret what he was feeling from the demon.

Exhaustion. The killing spree had taken a toll on him.

"Darkness never sleeps but power isn't free," Acheron muttered before exiting the room.

Cyrus dropped back to the ground, crossing his legs and willing his racing thoughts to slow. Acheron had been holding back on him; who knew what other things the demon was capable of? What things Cyrus himself might be capable of?

Jealousy clenched its cold fingers around his heart. Acheron preached moderation in Cyrus's kills, but had taken out a horde of beasts without a second thought. Cyrus had seen first hand, however, the consequences. He was also quite sure Acheron would never let on to the true extent of his torment, and that he had probably been much worse for wear.

Cyrus was still drunk on the power and possibilities and skimmed quickly over anything relating to consequences. He'd never imagined something as strange and wonderful as travelling through spots of negative energy. He wanted another taste of the otherworldly.

Staring at the sconces on the walls, Cyrus cleared his mind and focused on the flickering candlelight. He let go of all expectations, simply watching the flames and imagining they had minds of their own. He took in a deep breath, visualizing the borrowed soul energy coursing through his veins. Tapping into the power he knew was all his to begin with, Cyrus blew out his breath—

And every flame sputtered, wavered and died, leaving Cyrus in the darkness with his triumph.

§

It felt like several ages had passed since before his demonic field trip, but it was only an hour past noon. Cyrus knew by the time he reached Tuesday's school in Brooklyn she'd be getting out of class and was halfway out the door when Acheron cleared his throat behind him.

Cyrus slowly spun on his heel, uneager to face his mentor. Heat rushed to his face. Had he ever even blushed before? There was something very human about it, and this only deepened his discomfort.

"Heading out to consort with the Hale girl?" Acheron's voice twisted around the name, adding unnecessary malice to that single syllable. It didn't require a verbal response. Acheron let a thousand implications hang in the air for several moments, looking Cyrus up and down slowly. He sensed they had reached a point of no return, but had no clue what that meant. Then he said, "Very well."

Acheron dug in his pocket, pulling out a shiny leather wallet and extending it to Cyrus. "While in the city please make sure to stock up on some imperishables; the compound is running low. This shall cover it."

Cyrus's first thought: Acheron hadn't said 'please' in his entire life.

His second: why was he being let off so easy? Acheron's constantly flipping moods were going to give Cyrus premature grey hairs.

He gave the wallet a once-over before accepting it, watching as Acheron's eyes followed its path into Cyrus's pocket. Giving a slight nod, Cyrus slipped out the door, shutting it between them before taking a deep, shaky breath.

He could wither his whole life away wondering what the hell was Acheron's deal; repeating this to himself in a silent mantra, Cyrus trudged his way to the station. The whole ride to Brooklyn, he felt the wallet weighing him down like it was made of lead.

There were two distinct sides of Brooklyn as far as schooling was concerned: the tiny campus crumbling in on itself catering to the slums, and the pristine white-pillared building for the city's better-off. The latter is where Cyrus had met with Tuesday several times now, waiting like an obedient hound at the end of the stairs. Question was, was Cyrus really the dutiful mutt obeying the whims of a master--or was he the one holding the leash?

He thought he had his answer when a flood of students broke loose from the banks of doors, revealing Tuesday, who greeted him with a bright and ready smile. Muscle memory; it had come so easily. Cyrus hadn't needed to do anything but stand there.

"Hey you! How the heck are ya?"

He took a moment to absorb the sight of her as the trademark warmth of her soul enveloped him. Her uniform consisted of a white blouse tucked into a plaid, pleated skirt, but Tuesday didn't need the excuse of the Catholic school to wear her cross above it all. Seeing it barely phased Cyrus any longer; she didn't pester him on atheism and he didn't try to school her in the teachings of a cold and uncaring planet. It was a good balance.

Stolen novel; please report.

Tuesday was waiting for a response, and for once, Cyrus felt willing to give her one. Excitement spurred his tongue as he replayed everything he had witnessed just a few hours before--explaining it as if it were just a dream. He had no one else to gush to about the experience and he certainly couldn't tell her the whole truth. Cyrus felt easier around her with every passing day and speaking aloud felt a little less like drowning then.

When he finished relaying his 'dream', he turned to see Tuesday had stopped walking a few paces behind, staring at him with wide eyes. She opened her mouth but nothing left it for several seconds. "That sounds...incredibly vivid. And terrifying. I'm sorry you had such a bad dream."

Cyrus bit back the first response that leaped to his tongue: what was so terrible about it? Sometimes he forgot how totally and perfectly human Tuesday really was. If she knew what really was going through his head...

He went mute again, answering Tuesday with slight shakes or nods of his head if anything at all. His thoughts drifted to an alternate reality, one where he was free to be himself--to figure out who that even was. Cyrus was dragged back to the here-and-now when Tuesday stopped walking again and he nearly crashed into her.

They were standing in front of a stretch of townhouses. Twirling the cross in her fingers, Tuesday said, "I figured we could hang here for a bit." The end of the statement rose into a question.

Cyrus shrugged one shoulder and followed her up the steps to a door that looked identical to the rest. Photos of Tuesday in between her parents hung on the wall in between framed biblical quotes. His eyes lingered a little too long on the one that read 'Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour'.

From around the corner, a man emerged; Cyrus instantly recognized him from the family portraits and his internet search. There was Pastor Hale, in the flesh but dressed in plainclothes. In person the greyish eyes he shared with his daughter appeared blacker. More importantly, the sensation Cyrus was used to from Tuesday was not genetic. He could feel some kind of energy emanating from the man, but it was a thousand times more dull--and it was a creeping, staticky feeling. Cyrus could not interpret what it meant, as was the case with most humans.

Beside him, Tuesday flinched and said, "Oh, hey Dad--I thought you were going to be up at the church until late." Her voice had risen an octave.

A smile spread like honey across the man's face but somehow didn't reach his eyes. "Decided I would rather spend my time with my family today. Are you going to introduce me to your friend here?"

Did Cyrus imagine the emphasis Pastor Hale put on 'friend'?

Tuesday made a quick, shaky introduction and ushered Cyrus down the hall. He felt the man's gaze burning a hole in the back of his head and risked a glance back--

Pastor Hale was already looking away, eyes lingering on what could be seen of Tuesday's legs under the tinted pantyhose.

Tuesday leaned against her bedroom door as soon as it was shut, biting her lip. "Anyways, uh, this is my room...obviously."

Cyrus turned his attention to his surroundings. The walls were a soft, buttery color, like the first rays of sunlight spreading across a new morning sky. If her aura had a color, it would match those walls. A bookcase took up almost the entirety of the southern wall, every inch packed with tattered-looking paperbacks. On the opposite hung several water color paintings side by side, each one darker than the next. He studied them closer, making out the vague shapes of mountainsides and starry skies and towering ocean waves.

Twisting her cross again, Tuesday said quietly, "You ever wanna get the hell out of here?"

Cyrus met her eyes, which were growing glossier by the second. She jutted her chin at the paintings, clearing her throat and saying, "I guess I'm not a city kind of girl, you know? I want to see the world, not corner myself in it."

She fell quiet for several moments and sunk down onto her yellow bedspread. Cyrus followed suit, limbs stiff, back straight as a rod. Not more than an inch away from Tuesday, he was painfully aware of how her energy welcome him in like an embrace. He was sure she felt this to some degree as well--but didn't put a stop to it.

By now he saw how Tuesday must be reading into his actions and knew he could never feel anything for her in return beyond a scientific-like interest at best and, at worst, a bloodthirsty need. But Cyrus was a selfish creature and couldn't bring himself to voice those concerns.

The girl gave a nervous laugh, saying "Aaaanyways..." and throwing a light punch at his shoulder. Cyrus couldn't hold back a wince as his skin lit up in a prickling pain.

"Oh, c'mon, that did not hurt--" Before Cyrus could react, Tuesday was lifting back the sleeve of his t-shirt. Her voice cut off in a gasp as the two inflamed slits in his flesh were revealed. "What happened?"

Even if he could have known what to say, Cyrus's mouth went dry. He yanked the sleeve down and rose.

Tuesday began to speak before she cut herself off again, eyes growing even wider and out of focus. When she looked up again, all color had left her face. "The dream. Didn't you say you cut yourself in your dream?"

Cyrus turned his back on her, reaching for the doorknob. The sense of deja vu nearly knocked him off his feet, thinking back to the day she showed up on his doorstep--and how his first reaction was to escape. His mind shut down and all he could follow were his instincts, and they were screaming at him to get out.

"What are you--Cyrus, wait!"

He didn't, already clearing the hall and making his way back into fresh air. Tuesday caught him at the street, saying, "Cyrus, jesus just stop--okay!"

Hearing the ring of acceptance in her voice, he paused long enough for her to catch her breath. She continued softly, "I understand if the whole dream thing wasn't real. If you were just covering up for your uncle...well, you don't have to tell me. I'll drop it, okay, just don't go."

The shaking in his limbs subsided. Of course she wasn't going to jump to the conclusion Cyrus's 'dream' had been real; the assumption he was being abused still came as a shock, but it was better than the alternative. Swallowing hard, he turned to look back at her, not able to meet her eyes. Instead, he stared at her beaten up tennis shoes; something was scrawled in sharpie along the base of one shoe, but he couldn't make out what it said.

"I have to go to the store," he said quietly.

"Let me drive you," Tuesday replied.

After just a moment's hesitation, Cyrus gave a curt nod and followed her to her car. The ride there was dead silent, a thousand questions hanging in the air between them. He became aware of the wallet weighing him down again, and pulled it out from his pocket just as Tuesday parked outside the grocery store. His suspicion at Acheron's intent poked at his every thought until he finally flipped the wallet open--

And saw the face of a very familiar, and quite dead, priest.

Cyrus's breath caught in his throat; the world seemed to slow and stall. A ringing began in his ears as he stared at James Crocker's ID, placed clearly in one fold of the wallet. His thoughts turned indecipherable, a tangle of nonsensical screams.

Then the world was spinning again, and he was thrust back into reality when Tuesday went deathly still beside him.

Her eyes were locked on the photo. Her hands went from gripping the steering wheel to a convulsing mess; tears flooded freely down her face. "Tell me there's a logical reason you have that," Tuesday said, voice emanating the calm before the storm--smooth, low and devoid of emotion.

Cyrus couldn't give her what she wanted.

"Get out," she whispered, each syllable shaking. When Cyrus did not move, she began to scream it--over and over, shrill and at the top of her lungs. "Get out! Getoutgetoutgetout--"

He fell onto the pavement and watched as Tuesday shifted the car into drive with shaking hands. He knew he should stop her before she killed herself or someone else, but every molecule of his being had frozen.

Cyrus watched her disappear in a cloud of smoke.