What Crawls Below

13 § Fever Dream

Trigger warning: brief attempted rape scene.

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Cyrus still had learned nothing new, even after almost drowning to get answers. It was obvious everyone was in on some secret but him—so the only thing left to do was wait. He resigned himself to the fact he must refine his powers and strengthen himself first.

And then he'd make them tell.

Before Cyrus parted with Raziel, the demon warned him Acheron would know where he'd been. "Don't bother hiding this from him, he'll sense me on you...Lord, did he mark his territory with you himself."

It was somewhere past midnight when Cyrus arrived at his own doorstep, where he hesitated for several moments. Should he announce himself? Or walk right in?

When he finally twisted the handle and stepped inside, Cyrus found there was no need for attempting to be quiet. Acheron was sitting at the dining table, head bowed.

Cyrus crept forward cautiously, waiting for the lecture that was sure to come.

When Acheron finally spoke, his voice was calm—and he dragged over each word like he was too tired to speak them. "And the prodigal son returns."

He raised his head, raking his eyes over Cyrus from his still-dripping hair to the soggy tennis shoes. Acheron exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed back from the table.

"Let's stick to a need-to-know basis, hmm?" he muttered, stepping around Cyrus and leaving the room. Moments later a door shut quietly.

Cyrus was too exhausted to analyze that. He fell into bed—straight into a nightmare.

He was not himself; he was seeing the world through someone else's eyes. It didn't take long to figure out who. The room was dark, but enough light came in through the window that Cyrus could see the colossal bookcase standing at the opposite wall; he knew if he looked up, he would see the paintings Tuesday had hung above her bed. But Cyrus couldn't move in this body.

He was just along for the ride.

The bedroom door flung open, crashing into the wall; books along the shelves shook. Tuesday bolted upright, but then someone was on top of her and pressing her back into the mattress.

Pastor Hale's black eyes filled their vision—Cyrus, a helpless passenger, and Tuesday, who tried to scream. A sweaty hand clapped over her mouth; Cyrus could smell the booze wafting off the man, could even taste it.

When Hale spoke, his words slurred together. "D'you think I don't know what you're doing?"

She tried to kick, but her legs were pinned down. She screamed again, the sound muffled by Hale's skin.

"What you and that boy are doing," Hale repeated, spitting out the words. Cyrus could feel the hotness of his breath. "You're always gonna be my little girl. Mine."

The bottle of beer Hale had been holding in one hand clattered on the nightstand. With both hands now free, Hale curled the fingers of one around his daughter's throat. The other trailed down her torso, stopping at the hem of her nightgown.

At first, the wildness died in her, and she went limp beneath Hale. Then the sound of his belt landing on the floor shocked her back to reality; Hale's eyes were busy elsewhere and didn't notice as Tuesday reached for the beer bottle beside her.

She cracked it against his head; with a shocked yelp, Hale crumpled to the side, but wasn't down long enough for Tuesday to get up. Snarling like a wounded animal, soaked in beer and a single thin stream of blood trickling down his face, Hale reached his hands out to choke her again—

And then stopped.

Tuesday's hand shook around the makeshift blade she'd put to use from a shard of beer bottle. She was still gripping the end of it, watching as it sliced deep into her palm—the other end jutting out from Hale's neck. With eyes wide and bloodshot, he fell for the final time. Blood squirted from the fatal wound when she pulled the shard back out.

She looked down at herself, at the blood drenching her once white nightgown. For a moment she did not move.

Then, she raised a shaking, wet hand to her mouth—and Cyrus could taste the beer.

Cyrus bolted up in his own bed, panting, the taste of cheap liquor still on his tongue—and then the sound of the doorbell ringing reverberated through the house.