What Crawls Below

11 § Cold Turkey

For the next several days Cyrus wandered the streets of New York. He was in desperate need of a shower; his stomach ached and twisted until he couldn't feel anything but numbness; no one spared him a second glance or anything to take away the edge of loneliness creeping in.

He knew Acheron was right, he couldn't make it on his own. He hadn't been taught any life skills except manipulation and death. But he had to prove a point, prove he wasn't just a demon's plaything.

So Cyrus dealt with the hunger. More pressing, however, was a different need making itself more and more noticeable.

Somewhere in the middle of the week, Cyrus was digging through a dumpster somewhere when his hands began to shake too hard for him to continue. His vision wavered in and out. He slumped to the ground and let himself face the reality of the situation:

He was pathetic.

Yet another thing Acheron had been right about: he had an untapped keg of power at his disposal, but the only thing on his mind was a girl.

Even now, the memory of her clung to the fringes of his awareness. Cyrus knew, he saw now, what he had to do.

No more stalling. No more excuses. Tuesday served no purpose, and as long as she clouded his judgement, she had to die.

The decision stilled the tremors wracking his body, for the moment. It cleared all the cobwebs out of his head and lifted the weight from his shoulders. He could win back Acheron's approval and sate his need, and oh, she would probably last him a long time-- all Cyrus needed a knife.

His blade was back at the compound, and he had no idea where he could get his hands on one without cash. As Cyrus made the journey to Queens, he came to the realization this would be a much more personal kill. He would have to use his bare hands, unless he could grab a knife from the kitchen. And then there was the matter of getting in and out, without having to deal with the pastor or his wife. Of course, if push came to shove, they would just be more bodies in his wake...

He didn't have a plan. Dammit, how could he waltz in there without a plan?

Cyrus stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the Hale residence. By that point, all light had left the sky as well as from inside the home. Should he sneak in a window? Or would abandoning all care and taking on theatrics Moloch would certainly approve of work better--he could knock on the damn door like this was a normal housecall.

Then another thought occurred to him: Acheron had drilled into him the need for discreteness. Slaughtering the pastor's family was about as far from incognito as murder plots went.

He simply stood there, wrestling with these concerns, until the atmosphere around him shifted. The already cold air grew harsher yet, nipping at Cyrus's skin and raising the hairs along his arms. Breath catching, he craned his neck around to greet his visitor.

The red eyes of his savior leered back at him.

"Well," the man drawled, face lighting up with a smirk. "Come here often?"

How long had the man been following him? And what the hell did he want? Cyrus made no attempt to mask his confusion.

The other man waved a hand, giving a single-shoulder shrug. "It was sorta hard to ignore the tidal wave of desperation coming from this general vicinity, figured a little ol' someone might end up attracting the wrong kind of attention again and need another heroic rescue." He raked his eyes over Cyrus, shaking his head slightly. "Mhmm. You sure are jonesing."

Cyrus glanced back up at the townhouse, waiting for the inhabitants to hear the conversation and awake. He turned his best glare back on the other man, throwing all of his frustration into his next thoughts: GET LOST.