What Crawls Below

9 § Of Maggots and Men

In the space occupied by eleven corpses just moments before, Acheron laid his palm in the grass. With the blood of fresh wounds, both he and Cyrus had repainted the pentagrams. He attempted to brace himself, thinking that since he knew what to expect, this second trip through darkness would be easier.

It wasn't.

Again Cyrus's stomach dropped; again, he couldn't breathe or move his limbs. He tried to keep his eyes open this time, but a searing light blinded him.

He landed on his back just like before, but this time he felt the impact. First Cyrus's body was tumbling through empty space and time, then a whistling sound rang in his ears—and he landed with a smack on the concrete. It knocked whatever breath he'd managed to maintain out him. Cyrus curled in on himself, every limb aching.

When he was able to pull himself together, he saw Acheron was standing over him: eyebrows raised, arms crossed. "Not so easy, hmm?"

Cyrus's mind was already off the pain, the images of the corpses trapezing through his head. "How many times," he said, gasping, "have you done that?"

Acheron knew he was referring his casual slaughter of nearly a dozen reapers, not his strange form of travel. "Lost count somewhere in the 18th century."

Cyrus detected a weariness in his voice he hadn't heard before. He rose to his feet, reaching out with all his power and trying to interpret what he was feeling from the demon.

Exhaustion. The killing spree had taken a toll on him.

"Darkness never sleeps but power isn't free," Acheron muttered before exiting the room.

Cyrus dropped back to the ground, crossing his legs and willing his racing thoughts to slow. Acheron had been holding back on him; who knew what other things the demon was capable of? What things Cyrus himself might be capable of?

Jealousy clenched its cold fingers around his heart. Acheron preached moderation in Cyrus's kills, but had taken out a horde of beasts without a second thought. Cyrus had seen first hand, however, the consequences. He was also quite sure Acheron would never let on to the true extent of his torment, and that he had probably been much worse for wear.

Cyrus was still drunk on the power and possibilities and skimmed quickly over anything relating to consequences. He'd never imagined something as strange and wonderful as travelling through spots of negative energy. He wanted another taste of the otherworldly.

Staring at the sconces on the walls, Cyrus cleared his mind and focused on the flickering candlelight. He let go of all expectations, simply watching the flames and imagining they had minds of their own. He took in a deep breath, visualizing the borrowed soul energy coursing through his veins. Tapping into the power he knew was all his to begin with, Cyrus blew out his breath—

And every flame sputtered, wavered and died, leaving Cyrus in the darkness with his triumph.

§

It felt like several ages had passed since before his demonic field trip, but it was only an hour past noon. Cyrus knew by the time he reached Tuesday's school in Brooklyn she'd be getting out of class and was halfway out the door when Acheron cleared his throat behind him.

Cyrus slowly spun on his heel, uneager to face his mentor. Heat rushed to his face. Had he ever even blushed before? There was something very human about it, and this only deepened his discomfort.

"Heading out to consort with the Hale girl?" Acheron's voice twisted around the name, adding unnecessary malice to that single syllable. It didn't require a verbal response. Acheron let a thousand implications hang in the air for several moments, looking Cyrus up and down slowly. He sensed they had reached a point of no return, but had no clue what that meant. Then he said, "Very well."
Acheron dug in his pocket, pulling out a shiny leather wallet and extending it to Cyrus. "While in the city please make sure to stock up on some imperishables; the compound is running low. This shall cover it."