What Crawls Below

5 § Damned If You Do

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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.

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.