What Crawls Below

17 § Fall from Grace

Cyrus dug the knife in, muscles tensing to jerk it to the side, when he remembered Tuesday's presence mere feet away. She was still frozen, but no fear existed in her eyes.

There was nothing in them at all, the grey bottomless and cold. It made Cyrus's hand shake on the knife. Since crossing paths with Tuesday again, he'd seen her as the sacrificial lamb. That perception was comically inaccurate.

No, now—now she was the slaughterer.

"Go," Cyrus snapped through gritted teeth as the man struggled in his arms. The tone of his voice broke Tuesday's trance; she jolted back, gave him one last wide-eyed stare, then turned and fled in the other direction.

As Cyrus dragged the man off the path, the latter wildly jabbed his elbows backward but never made contact. He had around 4 inches height over Cyrus and half his weight seemed to be concentrated in his biceps, but it was over in seconds, and the shock was enough to do him in.

The man hadn't expected to cross paths with another hunter that night.

Cyrus's hand slicked with blood and the body dropped limp to the ground. For a moment, he took in the feeling rushing through his veins--more potent than any numbed-up druggie could ever be--and then reality hit him.

He hadn't thought this through.

Materializing behind him, a voice as dark as the night said, "Well, there's one thing you've got right."

Raziel stood, head bowed, staring down at the corpse with a grimace. He ran a weary hand over his face before turning away from the dead man and regarding Cyrus with exhaustion apparent in his eyes. The normal sarcastic cheeriness was long gone.

"I'll take care of the body," Raziel said quietly. "Lucky for you, your babysitter seemed to have more important business to attend to tonight, or I wouldn't have risked being here."

Why would you do that? Cyrus asked silently. He was beginning to wonder if this demon wasn't much different from Acheron, and only wanted something for himself.

"Figured I ought to remind you you're in the midst of a war, and you can't play for both teams. You need to start thinking about what it is you really want." Narrowing his eyes, Raziel jutted a finger towards the body at their feet. "Is this it?"

Before Cyrus could formulate a response, a set of footsteps pounded against the sidewalk; Tuesday came around the bend, beginning to say, "Are you ok--" then her eyes landed on Raziel, and she came to a halt.

Wordlessly, they looked each other over; the hint of dread entered Tuesday's eyes but Raziel remained emotionless. After a moment, he shook his head and muttered, "Bonnie and Clyde, in the flesh."

Raziel drew a dagger from his jacket, opening a dripping line across his forearm and saying, "I've given you plenty of favors already. Remember that when hell comes knocking." Kneeling to the ground, he fisted a hand in the dead man's shirt and gave Cyrus one more reproachful look before muttering an incantation and disappearing.

The sound of Tuesday's gasp once again reminded Cyrus of her presence; it seemed to be very difficult to get used to the concepts of her and his darkness mingling. She stared at the spot Raziel had occupied moments before, mouth agape. Breath wheezing, she said, "What--what the hell--"

Half of his attention was still on what Raziel had been saying, but Cyrus grabbed one of her hands and squeezed. Her eyes finally snapped up from the ground and met his.

The adrenaline and man's energy were still fresh and setting his nerves alight. On a hunch, Cyrus concentrated on the feeling his daily meditation gave him: a smooth, all-encompassing calmness. He felt it spread, the tranquility tangible in the air, and the tenseness left Tuesday's shoulders. She gave a shaky sigh, closing her eyes.

"Who was that?"

"A friend," Cyrus replied uncertainly.

"You don't have a stellar taste in friends, do you?"

Cyrus ignored this, glancing down at their still-intertwined hands. He slipped his free and replaced it against her back, ushering her down the path and out of Central Park. He left her at her own doorstep without a word, though they shared a long look before Tuesday finally entered her home. On his way back, the images of her coldly delivering a man to his doom swam through his mind.

Black was not her color and darkness didn't look good on her. It was wrong, went against her nature like an angel toting a pitchfork.

Nonetheless, they weren't about to stop. Cyrus needn't even worry about dealing with the aftermath, either; upon getting home that first night, Acheron took one look at the blood staining his clothes and said, "If you agree to stop consorting with bottomfeeders, I will help you clean up next time."

Cyrus, not expecting any real answers, asked just who Raziel was.

"Just another scavenger," Acheron scoffed. "Another misanthrope who wants to be god. Remember that," he warned.

Cyrus would. Raziel wouldn't be the only contender for the title. The lack of wrath raining down upon Cyrus's head even when he'd snuck around was the real concern; why had there been no punishment? Why would Acheron react so cooly to Cyrus's new plan of attack?

As he drifted off to sleep that night, the delirium whispered a suggestion: maybe even Acheron could be afraid of what was coming.