What Crawls Below

15 § False Prophet

Cyrus regained his sense of hearing first. Voices wavered back to him as if he were underwater, but he could make them out nonetheless.

The first was low and tremulous. "What have you done to him?"

The second responded with a cold laughter. "I might ask you the same question." The voice paused, and returned with an underlying sharpness. "Tell me, what possessed you to come here? And what makes you think you're welcome?"

Tuesday didn't respond. Cyrus struggled, in a daze, to remember how to move. He became aware then of the feeling of something hard pressing into his back; his feet dangled off the surface, suspended in the air.

When Acheron spoke again, his voice was almost too quiet to hear. "Do you think it's a coincidence you feel connected?"

The thought of the demon and the girl in the same room shocked his system enough that Cyrus regained the ability to move. His eyes snapped open, and as the scene came into focus he saw he was lying on the dining room table.

Acheron was suddenly by his side, taking Cyrus's chin in his cold fingers and turning it to face him. "There you are. How do you feel?"

Cyrus focused on the heaviness in his limbs and how much effort it took to even lift his head. Sleepiness tugged at him, yearning to pull him back under.

"To be expected."

Cyrus remembered Tuesday's presence and glanced over to her, where she stood stiffly against the kitchen wall. Her eyes were wide, darting between him and the demon; he couldn't imagine what she must be thinking.

He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. Cyrus silently pressed at Acheron, waiting for him to elaborate. Then Cyrus saw Tuesday's undamaged hand and the memory sucker-punched him: he had healed her.

"Energy has to come from somewhere," Acheron explained to him. "Impressive trick you just pulled off, but it has its consequences."

Then he turned to Tuesday.

"Now would be the time for running and screaming," Acheron mused, but his voice was deadpan.

Cyrus attempted to lift his head again, and saw Tuesday's hands shaking. She clutched them behind her back, meeting Acheron's eyes. The fear was evident in her own, but she didn't look away.

Cyrus envied that.

He managed to sit up, though every muscle ached and he rather would have collapsed again. He tried, in vain, to speak.

What was there to even say?

Sure, he'd been planning on telling her moments before about what he was—but Cyrus hadn't planned on this, hadn't planned on Acheron being a part of that conversation. He stayed silent.

"You're not...human..." Tuesday spoke up in a meek voice. It felt like it should have been directed at Cyrus, but she was still staring at Acheron.

He laughed again, the sound raising the hair on Cyrus's arms. For him to be so disturbed by it, it was a wonder Tuesday was holding her ground so well; Cyrus couldn't stop marvelling at that.

Acheron walked towards her until he was inches away, bending down to mutter near her ear, "Careful, now. Wouldn't want anything happening to you like your friend Crocker."

He leaned away, and Cyrus had enough time to see Tuesday's face pale when the doorbell rang.

"Well," Acheron said smoothly, "that would be for you."

Tuesday stayed frozen in place.

"The police," he prompted, "may want a word with you." Acheron's eyes trailed down to her bloody garments.