What Crawls Below

8 § Ashes to Ashes

"There is no cause for alarm. We may only assume she left of her own accord, in which case she is weak. Janice Gladwin was unworthy of our cause and it will be in everyone's best interest to forget her. You are dismissed," Acheron concluded. Everyone but Cyrus filed out of the compound's basement.

Without looking up from his place in the center of the room, Acheron said, "You may leave now."

Limbs locked in place, Cyrus did not move. He just watched his mentor, who seemed to be waiting for him to exit before—what?

Eyes blazing like lit coals, Acheron said, "I have business to attend to, boy, and you need no part in it."

Cyrus wasn't backing down that easy. He had trusted Acheron his entire life: did that not mean anything? Was he not entitled to some kind of answer?

Acheron wasn't messing around, either; he stared Cyrus down until any normal person would have wilted under that sneer.

He wasn't a normal person.

One side of Acheron's mouth curled up, though the smile lacked any humor. His eyes were still cold and calculating. "You think you're ready to walk in my shoes? So be it."

He was wearing the same jet-black suit he never seemed to part with, and from the side pocket he produced a pocketknife. Cyrus watched, frozen, as Acheron undid the top few buttons of his suit and pushed aside the fabric. When he exposed his bare shoulder, Cyrus had to stifle a gasp.

Acheron's otherwise smooth, tanned skin was marred by a latticework of scars. They covered a thick strip along his shoulder, staining it white.

Just as Cyrus could bleed, he never doubted Acheron was able to be hurt; nonetheless, it was hard to imagine. In complete silence he watched as Acheron flicked open the pocketknife and opened a two-inch gash atop all the other scars; blood welled to the surface, a single thin stream trickling down his forearm.

Acheron stowed away the knife and used two fingers to smear away the blood before tracing them in a circular motion upon his left palm. He buttoned his suit back up and gestured Cyrus to come forward.

"Your turn."

He swallowed, hard, but knew there was no getting out of this without losing his pride or testing the demon's patience. Cyrus crept forward. Acheron seized his arm, holding it in place while he made a similar cut on Cyrus's own shoulder. He managed to hold back a wince or any other sign of his discomfort.

"It doesn't matter where the blood comes from, but at least this is easy to hide," Acheron explained as he used his fingers like a paintbrush, swirling Cyrus's blood around on his palm. When Acheron pulled back, Cyrus saw he'd drawn an upside-down pentagram.

"I've been around the world and back and never boarded a ship or plane. All it takes is a small sacrifice—" At this, Acheron nodded to the blood on their hands. "And somewhere full of pain."

He turned his eyes to the center of the room, kneeling to the floor and placing his bloodied hand to it, symbol facing the concrete. "This place may look empty but the damage you've inflicted upon a human soul here left it's mark. Residual negative energy, that's what fuels my travel."

Reaching out with his other hand, Acheron looked at Cyrus expectantly. "Demons have free roam of anywhere dark, and they can bring along a passenger. Have you changed your mind?"

It took a moment to remember how to shake his head, then Cyrus joined Acheron in a crouch on the floor. Acheron pressed his bare hand into Cyrus's bloodied one, murmured something under his breath, and the room began to tilt.

Cyrus watched the bare concrete walls melt away until the sight made him dizzy. With his eyes clenched, he could still see vague flashes of light dance outside his eyelids. Cyrus tried to reach a hand up to block it, but couldn't feel his limbs. Then came the sensation of an elevator dropping, multiplied by a hundred; he could swear he felt as his organs nearly fell out his body. Wind tore at his clothes, took his breath away, but didn't make a sound.