What Crawls Below

17 § Fall from Grace

Sometimes her eyes would glaze over and she'd freeze, and any sudden movement from Cyrus would shock her back to reality and make her flinch. It wasn't hard to guess what she was seeing, and it was clear from how on edge Tuesday had become that her dreams of blood and death weren't sweet ones.

When Cyrus asked her why she wanted to  help him, Tuesday replied, "After you...you know...when you were unconscious on the table it looked more like you were dead." Voice dropping to a whisper, she continued, "You're all I have now. I can't give this up. I can't lose you too."

After a moment, Tuesday added, "I'm sorry for coming over so early, I just had to get out of the house. My mom, she—" her voice cracked, and it took a moment for her to compose herself. "She called me a lying whore."

For once, Cyrus's preferred muteness didn't damper the conversation. He knew nothing he said would make a difference. Standing, he opened the door and beckoned her inside instead. Cyrus led her to the dining table, where he slid his untouched cereal over to her and took a seat across the table.

"Thanks," she said quietly, the hint of a smile briefly touching her lips.

They sat in silence until Cyrus could think of something to say. "How will you help me?"

Tuesday bit her lip, twirling the spoon in her fingers and not looking up. After enough time had passed that Cyrus was convinced she wouldn't respond, she said, "I'll be your bait."

Her motive finally clicked in place then, the one that explained her strange calmness about planning a murder. Priests and druggies weren't on the menu; no, people like her own father were.

This was personal, and she really was out for blood. Cyrus, for a brief moment, worried this would bring consequences.

But he was too far gone to care. They both were.

§

The first of many arrived three days later, a man whose lasciviousness clung to him tighter than the two-sizes too small jeans he wore. Now that Cyrus had experience with the feeling, he had come to recognize its distinct high-strung nature. Nothing physically gave hint to the man's inner demons, but then again, Pastor Hale had proven wolves can comfortably don sheep's clothing.

If the man's energy weren't enough indication, the chat logs between him and who he had thought to be a fourteen year old girl was the last nail in the coffin. It hadn't taken much on Tuesday's part to lure him here; she uploaded some pictures of herself in her school uniform and her hair in pigtails online, and within hours several men had messaged her, the texts starting as friendly and quickly nose-diving into obscene. Cyrus had no taste for the theatrics and effort involved and mainly steered clear of learning any of the details.

All that mattered was the man approaching Tuesday, and the faint outline of the gun Cyrus could see sticking out of his waistband even from his position several dozen yards away.

Tuesday had agreed to meet the man alone in Central Park after dusk, promising it would be their secret. Away from the lit path and hidden in a copse of trees, cloaked in darkness, Cyrus was sure he couldn't be seen. He waited, fingers tapping his blade, until the man was facing away from him, sitting on the park bench and closing the distance between himself and Tuesday.

The man snaked one arm around her, drawing her inward, and she seemed to freeze. Tuesday remained as still as a predator waiting patiently to strike; despite this, Cyrus could only read into it as fear.

He crept forward, watching carefully as the two rose from the bench, one of the man's hands clamping possessively down on Tuesday's shoulder. Before he could turn and spot Cyrus, he had one arm wrapped around the man's torso, pinning his arms there, and the blade was to his throat.