What Crawls Below

21 § An Act of God

He was alone, he was sure; he hadn't sensed anyone following his trail. The night was quiet, in stark contrast to the battle zone that was now Cyrus's mind.

After changing into dry clothes, he had slipped his ceremonial knife in his shirt, the feeling of the cool metal against his bare flesh a reminder not to lose his head. Cyrus revisited some old haunts--Central Park, the drug den, even the sidewalk outside Tuesday's home. There he paused, staring at the darkened windows for just a moment before continuing on his way. All the while, he was making his first prayer, focusing so hard on the name it birthed a splitting headache.

As he whirled in circles, Cyrus saw he was still totally alone.

Fuming now, Cyrus let go of all restraint and began yelling Raziel's name.

If he had ever doubted whether the demon had been spying on him, that uncertainty crashed and burned when Cyrus was able to say the name just twice. The clearing of a throat behind him caused Cyrus to whirl around, coming face-to-face with Raziel.

The demon was leaning against an alley wall, calmly dragging on a cigarette. Exhaling a cloud of smoke in Cyrus's face, Raziel clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Jeez, kid, I'm beginning to think you have a death wish." Baring his gleaming white teeth, Raziel added, "Takes a masochist to know one, I suppose."

Before Raziel could lift the cigarette to his lips again, Cyrus had drawn the knife and used it to pin him against the wall, digging the sharpest edge into the other man's throat. Surprise more than anything colored Raziel's face; he made a slight choking sound and let out a groan. "C'mon, you could at least buy me dinner first, sport."

Cyrus pressed the knife in deeper.

"Alright, alright, whaddya want? But get that thing outta my face, you little gremlin."

Cyrus took a small step back, keeping the knife raised in warning. Raziel snorted, muttering, "It's not the blade that makes the man." Louder this time, he continued, "I gotta admire that spunk, though. Out with it already."

But Cyrus had not been hiding his thoughts, and he didn't feel like repeating himself. He stood his ground, fingers so tense around the blade's handle that they had begun to ache.

Raziel ran a hand through his already-tousled hair, groaning again. "You know that thing about death wishes? I was jerking your chain, kid, I don't feel like dying tonight."

Cyrus took a deep breath, and as he exhaled it, he imagined every dark and twisted thing about himself leaving with it: every kill, every secret, every doubt about whether he was going down the correct path. He projected his pain and frustration outside himself, and was rewarded by a slight but noticeable shudder wracking Raziel's body.

Raziel paused, eyes getting a little wide, but kept his voice controlled. "You think I'm afraid of a little tantrum?"

Cyrus flipped the knife over and over between his fingers, and saw Raziel's eyes dart from it and back up to his face. He shrugged one shoulder flippantly, eyes still wide.

"Have it your way." Raziel turned his eyes to the street, giving it a once over before looking back to Cyrus. His next words were low and rushed, stumbling over each other. "There's this whole order of things, as you know, and no soul goes without its owner. Someone dies, someone is born to take their place. Eighteen years ago Acheron disrupted the natural balance and a single soul, for a single moment, went unassigned." He stared down at Cyrus, wearing a stoic mask. "Lord knows what that cost him, but you understand what I'm saying, yes?"