What Crawls Below

17 § Fall from Grace

Cyrus wanted to be alone. His wishes rarely seemed to be granted lately, though, and when he slipped down into the subway Moloch reappeared beside him. A shit-eating grin split across his face and he gave a low whistle, thumping Cyrus on the back.

"You sure got your hooks in deep there," he said.

The same could be said about the reverse; the idea of Tuesday and his own extracurricular activities mixing had no appeal. Cyrus didn't want her anywhere near more death and destruction. It was unnatural.

Moloch kept chattering, getting more and more suggestive until Cyrus decided it was better to just tune him out. He had never seen Moloch around, but the reaper must have found a decent hiding spot to have heard his conversation; this was far from comforting.

The last thing Tuesday had said to him got stuck in a vicious cycle in Cyrus's head; he'd asked her what it felt like to care about who lives or dies, and she'd replied, deadpan, "You already know." He wanted to chalk up all her observations as being grossly inaccurate, but the longer he dwelled on them, the more his guard went down. Cyrus did know what it felt like. He'd felt it when the sight of James Crocker's wallet had turned Tuesday against him; he'd felt it when Delilah bled out right under his hands and there was nothing he could do to save her.

The line dividing humanity from all the dark and twisted things that nightmares were made of was terribly thin, it seemed. Pastor Hale had dabbled in that darkness; Cyrus was gaining a conscience; and now, the nicest girl in New York was offering to play Grim Reaper with him.  Everything he thought he knew about the world was rolling over and dying, and the truths rising from those graves weren't any prettier.

Upon arriving back at the house, Cyrus sealed himself in his room, uninterested in seeing if Moloch would report the day's events to his mentor. He needed the chance to think these things over himself.

Cyrus tried for hours to think of a reason to turn Tuesday's offer down, but came up with nothing. He had an addiction and she was prepared to supply the needle.

It went beyond a simple craving now, anyhow. With every soul he took, he grew stronger; he would need to continue refining his abilities, and fast. His relationship with Acheron grew more tenuous with each passing day and Cyrus needed to be ready for anything. The first task at hand he must tackle would be gaining Second Advent's faith; Cyrus couldn't remain a pariah if he ever wanted to lead them some day.

It would be no easy feat, and Cyrus knew he needed to fuel up. Acheron had preached obscurity and moderation to him...

But screw moderation. Cyrus wanted a bloodbath.

And as long as he continued playing the part of a dutiful soldier, he couldn't see how Acheron could object. The demon clearly had some purpose for him, and Cyrus was not of much use at such low power.

Cyrus slept soundly that night, having finally reached his decision.

In the kitchen the following morning, Cyrus paused in the act of pouring out some cereal when he saw the hair on his arms stand on end. Seconds later, the familiarity—and at the same time, totally alien—of Tuesday's presence washed over him. He changed course to open the front door and saw she was sitting on the porch steps, staring at the ground.

Clearing his throat, Cyrus sank down beside her and asked, "How long...?"

Tuesday shrugged, the black of her outfit contrasting dramatically with her pallid skin. Dark circles ringed her eyes, which were sort of red and bloodshot. Whatever brightness had survived her trip into hell had retreated into hiding.

It seemed Cyrus wasn't the only one with a bloodlust. Pastor Hale's death didn't seem to be enough for her; she was killing every last trace of the old Tuesday along with him.