What Crawls Below

10 § When the Bough Breaks

Watching the only thing that had inspired enough emotion in him to lie or question authority leave did something to Cyrus. He could almost feel something snap in him, something in the coldest, darkest reaches of his being.

The girl had been the only thing from his past that hadn't abandoned him, the only person interested in treating him like he was—human. It had given him some semblance of humanity, just the faintest taste of it.

Now he was just another monster.

A light snow began to fall, mingling with the smog and painting the world grey. Grey, like the memory of two accusing eyes haunting him with every step he took. Cyrus's movements were mechanical as he entered the subway. As soon as he got off, though, he broke into a sprint. Adrenaline and a thousand thoughts he couldn't quiet pushed him onward until he broke through the door of the house, letting it crash into the wall.

Acheron was waiting for him.

A spot of blackness in the otherwise kitchen, from his suit to the shadows swirling in his eyes, he sat calmly at the dining table. Cyrus was gasping for air; Acheron was as still as a corpse and just as lively, watching him with no emotion cracking his porcelain face.

A heavy feeling invaded his senses then, a certain darkness infiltrating his every pore. It wasn't from Acheron, Cyrus realized, this darkness was all his own and it hung so strongly in the air it could have smothered them both. The ceiling lamp flickered, an omen Cyrus barely gave notice to.

Looking at the demon, Cyrus could only think of what he'd taken from him: any chance at normal.

Acheron's jaw twitched, the first sign he felt Cyrus's pain yet. He leaned forward, shadows parting from his face and letting his red eyes gleam to their full, angry potential. "Do you honestly believe an ounce of normalcy runs through your veins?"

He shoved back from the table, nearly toppling the chair over. Standing to full height, Acheron towered above him, but Cyrus didn't shrink back.

"You were distracted," Acheron sneered. "You have the power to raze this world to ash, yet treat that privilege without a dash of respect. And what is she to you if she can't accept you as you are?"

Cyrus felt like his entire body was in overdrive. His fists shook, his shoulders quaked; he felt ready to burn the house to the ground. No, he felt ready to kill. The need to take control again, to feel something crumble and die in his bare hands, gripped him.

Though he was eye-level with the demon's chest, Cyrus moved forward until he was inches from Acheron's face, spitting out, "If you don't help me fix this, I'll–"

Calmly, with a smile, Acheron challenged, "You'll what, boy?"

The lights stopped flickering. The tremors died in Cyrus's body. He paced backward, still hyperventilating.

He had to get out of there.

The thought ran through his head over and over, a panicked mantra. He didn't know where he'd go; he didn't know what he'd do. But Cyrus couldn't stay pinned under Acheron's cold unflinching gaze for a second longer.

He hadn't meant to let Acheron hear any of that, but his mind was too crazed to hold it back. The smile left Acheron's face, and the room grew darker. The shadows returned, clinging to every curve of the demon's form.

"You won't last a week on your own. I made you–"

A strange emphasis was put on those words. Despite his anger, Cyrus caught on to that and turned it over in his head.

"I made you who you are today," Acheron elaborated, and Cyrus saw his eye twitch. He quickly continued, "Never forget what I've done for you. I gave you a home. I gave you power. I felt your pain and found you that night soaking in a pool of your mother's blood–"