The cellar beneath the catholic school was dark, damp, and smelled of mildew. The problems continued as Ira and Melchior climbed the creaking wood steps.

The door at the top of the stairs was jammed. Ira turned the cold handle beneath his shaking palm, trying with masked panic to assess the situation. The knob would twist, but the door was immovable. His heart thrummed in the thin skin of his throat, stirred on by regrettable childhood memories of standing in this exact spot.

"It's okay." the soft voice murmured just behind his ear. Ira's cheeks flushed pink. He bent his head in bitter embarrassment. Melchior had never seen Ira successfully open a door since they met, and it was beginning to become a humiliating pattern. First, the stuck portrait in the too-white hall. Then, the stone slab at the end of the passage that Ira hadn't managed to navigate. And now this--and he was running out of excuses. "Move over a little. I can help." 

The heat blooming in Ira's skin deepened into the pit of his chest, consuming him from the inside-out with something hot and constricting. He whirled around, surprising Melchior so badly that he almost tumbled backward into the cellar they'd just climbed from. "If I wanted your help--I would have asked! I'm not some fragile baby bird!" 

Melchior gripped the handrails and steadied himself, half a step lower than he had been before. His eyes were wide, and in the dim of the basement, they glimmered in moonlight like that of a wild animal. Ira hadn't mentioned it before, not to himself or to the other, because he was ashamed to admit that he was afraid. Of those eyes. No matter what simple trick of the dark it seemed to be. When Melchior looked at him, Ira was nothing but a rabbit pinned beneath a beast much bigger than him. He turned his head away, pretending to be occupied by the jammed hinges. 

"I'm just trying to help!" Melchior protested weakly. 

"I didn't ask you to." Ira reiterated. His pulse thrummed in his head until he was dizzy.

"Why do you think you need to ask?" Melchior shifted uncomfortably. 

"I've never done this before." Ira admitted, and then because that was applicable to a lot of their current situation, he clarified, "worked with someone. It's just been Father Pine and I, for a really long time. And before it was just us. . . well, it wasn't the most fun a kid could have, let's just say. So, I don't need you to undermine me all the time. I'm used to this." 

"Undermining you?" Melchior scoffed. "My life is on the line here--and you can't even open one door. I'm doomed if you keep going on like this." 

The words stuck as thorns in Ira's skin. He knew how unprepared he was. He didn't need Melchior to remind him at every turn. A bitter pang of anger beat in time with his heart. "Oh, so you suddenly care about your life?" Ira choked. He'd regretted the words as soon as they tumbled over his thick tongue. Ira squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe around the knot, tangling up his throat. 

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm facing my situation rationally, so I must not care?" The stairs creaked as Melchior rose to meet Ira in defiance. "I have people I care about. If they're going to fight for me to get a chance, I'm not going to waste it. And it starts with this door." 

Melchior pressed into the top of the stairwell. He was keeping himself carefully distant, straining with the effort of giving Ira a wary gap in the tight hall. Ira suddenly felt worse for it. He glowered down into eerily shining eyes.

"I said I got it." Ira bit.

"I said I can help." Melchior bit back.

Ira rolled his blue eyes and braced his shoulder against the flat panes of the oak door. He steeled his oxford shoes on the aged wood steps beneath himself. With one hand, Ira twisted the door handle, and with the rest of his force, he began to push.

The stairs beneath them groaned with displeasure. Melchior locked into the space next to Ira, pushing with flat palms. Ira could imagine how his muscles might have looked beneath the sleeves of his jacket.

The door began to buckle faster than Ira could correct. "Mel--wait!" He gasped. But he wasn't fast enough. With the moan of ancient architecture, the door suddenly disappeared. For a moment, Ira thought they'd shattered the aged oak, but it was the hinges that had given in first. With a near sonic boom, the door swung out. Ira waived his arms blindly to try to correct his staggered stumble.

His effort were met swiftly with defeat. Ira tumbled forward, already trying and failing to catch himself on his momentum. His shoes caught on the edge of the doorframe, and then he was really falling. Ira landed on his hands and knees with a bone shaking jolt. But he was still doing better than the boy sprawled across the floor of the hall next to him.

They'd made it out of the basement and into the lower hallway of the school on the cathedral close. The passage was narrow, lined with vibrant stained glass windows. Blood red and fire orange.

Melchior rubbed his nose and pushed himself slowly off his stomach. He licked his teeth, soft pink rolling over teeth pearl-white and predator-sharp. He made coughing noises, sputtering into his open palms. "I think I swallowed some carpet."

"Gross." Ira remarked. Melchior fit him with a sour expression, and Ira was weak to the last of his anger wilting away. The viper wrapped tight around his ribs loosened, and nothing could contain the laughter that spilled over his lips. Melchior's eyes shot wide in surprise. In the hallway, lying beneath the spray of orange and red light, Ira finally saw that they were hazel-green.

"Pretty," he murmured.

"Huh?" Melchior questioned, scrunching up his thick eyebrows in confusion.

"The windows." Ira pointed over Melchior's shoulder. "They're so bright. The sun must be setting."

Melchior shrugged at that, looking less than impressed by the display. Suddenly, his eyes rose in confusion. "Angels, how long was that tunnel?" He rubbed the back of his head.

Ira considered it, but suddenly, the two boys had more pressing problems.

"Angels!" A shrill cry startled both boys into a tight snap of attention. Ira glanced down the hall, at the elderly woman pacing angrily towards them. "What the devil are you two boys doing? The cellar is off-limits! What class are you two skipping to be out here?"

"Uh," Melchior balked.

"Uh," Ira agreed unhelpfully.

The nun crossed her arms over her chest, a frown that could put any mother's glare to shame, etched her hollow cheeks into a ravine. "Hall passes, now!" She barked.

"We don't. . . have any?" Melchior said apologetically.

She looked rather unimpressed, so Ira decided to take a different route. "Look, lady. We don't even go to school here." Ira ignored the dramatic widening of eyes that Melchior fixed him with. The nun's cheeks boiled red.

"So you two just happened to wander in?" She scoffed.

Melchior rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, well, about that. .  .we did?" The nun's eyes fell to the smooth curve of his wrist. His shirt sleeve had been rolled back by the force of his fall, revealing curled black tips of something etched into his ebon skin. Melchior froze. He slowly lowered his arm, moving slow enough to confuse a T-Rex or impersonate a pot of molasses.

The nun's cold brown eyes traced the stained edges of the black mark, her nose flared in disgust.

Ira, too, felt drawn to it by invisible strings woven from curiosity. It was strange, he thought. It seemed that most things concerning this boy could be filed away under that category.

So, he could have laughed, except that it was not funny. Tattoos were forbidden. So why did he have one? It seemed that this kid had never taken his vows seriously. He'd escaped pilgrimage into adulthood, he recklessly marked his skin, and he had no willpower to save his own life. He was rife with problems, and now Ira was stuck to him.

The nun's eyes slowly abandoned the edges of his marking to roam Melchior's face. It was there that her stare matured from disgust into hatred.

"You." The nun snapped. "Brisbane."

He turned sallow in the cheeks. Melchior swallowed hard, looking more nervous than Ira had ever seen him--and Ira had met him on the hour that was meant to be his last. "Okay--this has been a hard day for everyone. My friend and I are leaving, we're sorry for the door." Melchior chattered awkwardly.

The woman took a step back as Melchior began to rise. He flinched, and so did she. "A shame." She shook her head. "What a waste of your great father's blood." Her eyes flickered towards Ira, and he held his breath, waiting for her to turn on him, instead her voice filled with pity, "Don't muck around with the pigs, boy. Or you'll be too dirty to go home. Don't give up your claim on humanity."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ira narrowed his eyes at her. A hot spike of anger grew between his ribs, pressing until Ira thought they might snap.

"Angels save us." She muttered, "leave now." Finding Ira unworthy of further explanation, she spun on her heels and angrily marched back from where she'd come.

As she retreated she took with her the edges of Ira's vitriol. He looked at Melchior's drooping shoulders, and felt the last bit of heat seap from his skin. He deflated as quickly and violently as a popped balloon.

"Okay," Ira laughed nervously. "So, that was weird, right?" He looked at Melchior's bright green eyes, the ones he'd first found startling. As if sensing his past dislike in the air, Melchior quickly looked away.

"Let's just go before we get detention." Melchior muttered miserably.

• • •

Melchior hadn't said much since they'd come from underground, and now Ira was beginning to miss his idle chatter. It had been as comforting as it was grating.

Ira tilted his head back to look at the warm summer sun lowering over the skyscraper crust of New York. He kicked his polished black oxfords at a pile of grass and scratched the back of his neck. "Uh. . . nice weather we're having?" He tried awkwardly.

Melchior scrunched up his nose and shook his head. "It'll definitely be warm enough for sleeping on a bench. Unless you have other plans."

"As pleasant as camping at Central Park sounds, I thought we could just head up to our apartment." Ira shrugged.

"Our what?" Melchior choked.

Ira refrained from rolling his eyes. His bitter sting of frustration was unwarranted, he reasoned. Ira kept his face carefully blank. He was scared of chasing Melchior back into his shell.

Despite being the same age as Ira, physically, because no one was really as old as Ira, he seemed completely oblivious in most things regarding anything other than his fate. Ira kicked himself. How long had Father Pine lied to him about his pilgrimage? He was no better.

"Look," Ira pointed across the cathedral close to the southern side. On the corner, nestled against the busy street, was a building several stories high. It was made of white with great big chunks carved out of its pale sides for blue-tinted windows. "We own that."

"The Progeny. . .owns an apartment complex?" Melchior echoed.

Ira shrugged. "Saint John's cathedral sold a corner of the close to some construction company, and that's what they did with it. Avalon Morningside Park, fancy, right? Deacons will spend their pilgrimage there. We aren't allowed contact with our mentors anymore. What else did you think would happen?"

"I never really thought about it." Melchior admitted. He stared up at the luxury apartment building with a closed off expression.

Ira fished the envelope the Cardinal had given him from his pocket. It had a slight weight to it, and it rustled softly as he held it out to Melchior. He glanced at it.

"What?" He mumbled, but Ira could see the curiosity building behind his olive green eyes.

"Open it." Ira shrugged.

Melchior sighed heavily. Ira wiggled the paper in the air at him, causing a gentle cascade of more ruffling from the contents inside. Melchior laughed, finally accepting the plain white package. He tore open the lip of the letter. "It's keys." He said, sounding somewhat disappointed.

"Just what we needed, more keys." Ira sighed.

Melchior furrowed his eyebrows. "And our apartment number." He held a small silver house key in his fingers. A yellow scrap of paper was tied to the bow of the passkey. Scribbled in curling calligraphy was their new home.

"Really? Five-four-three. Well, that'll be easy to remember." Ira noted, plucking the small metal opener by its teeth. He slipped his chain from his neck and added the new pendant. It looked odd against Father Pine's grand skeleton knickknack. "Shall we begin?" Ira asked.

Melchior turned cedar-pale. "We haven't already?"

"All of this is nothing but a prelude." Ira shrugged, pretending that his words were casual to soften the sting. "What follows next will determine the course of our lives. Or, even if we deserve lives at all."

"Great." Melchior mumbled. "No biggie."

• • •

Reaching apartment five-four-three had been harder than Ira had anticipated. Too scared to draw attention, they'd opted for quickly whizzing past the woman sitting at the front desk. That part had been easy. She'd been completely absorbed in painting her delicately long nails. Melchior pinched his nose to pass under the cloud of toluene. 

Ira managed to shepard them into the elevator before losing steam. He stared at the panel of buttons blanky. 

"Am I allowed to help, or do you need to ask for it first?" Melchior questioned, slumping back against the wall of the elevator. 

Ira fit him with a withering look and crossed his arms. "No." He said. Ira glanced at the glowing yellow dials. He snapped his hand out quickly, randomly punching the button for floor five. "See, I got it." 

"You did not." Melchior corrected. 

Ira scrunched up his eyebrows. "How could you possibly know that?" 

Melchior sighed, and he held out the envelope. Ira flushed pink, his base function whenever Melchior was around. He'd assumed the letter had only contained keys. He creased open the lip and pulled out the papers inside. One was a simple yellow square of note paper, with only one word scribbled across. "Six." He read. "Angels, how many Deacons get lost here?" 

"I assume they don't want us fumbling through their luxury complex, covered in Beast guts." Melchior shrugged. There was something else in the packet, a smooth white slip of folded letter paper. Ira began to pull it free, but Melchior held out his hand. He clasped Ira's fingers in his own, stilling them both. "Let's save it for home." 

Ira glanced between their entangled fingers. He could see the flat edges of the Cardinal's blood red wax seal. Ira nodded, "okay." He agreed. Then, all that was left between them was to go there.

Ira punched the button for floor six. The elevator began to rise, pausing briefly at floor five. Ira turned hot-poker red and glared at Melchior's amused grin.

At six, he poured out into the hallway. He was immediately disorganized. Ira was dizzy with the airy and exciting feeling of roaming the too-quiet halls of a hotel. But this wasn't a hotel, and this was far from a vacation--time limit or not.

Footsteps trailed him down the hall, and they didn't belong to Father Pine. Ira couldn't think of the last time he'd been alone with anyone else. All of this was strange, Ira had the sickening upside down sense that he was watching his world unfold inside a funhouse mirror.

It was all mixed up in his head. He wanted to turn tail and run. He wanted to charge ahead, unabashed. He wanted to wash his hands of this responsibility. 

Ira couldn't even begin to untangle the strings in his mind. All he knew was that one stood out more than the rest; he wanted to save the boy that stood in the wavy mirror opposite him.

And it was hot iron on his tongue. They were alike, no matter how much he denied it. Each time, his words had cut Ira as deep as Ossein. Had it really been that insulting for Melchior to think of himself in regards to Ira?

It stung more than he could explain. He'd been rejected and mocked most of his life, and it never got easier. Ira would have given everything he had to this mission, but he couldn't even bring himself to look at the task ahead. All he could think was: what's so wrong with me? And the answer was obvious. He was Ira Rule, the soul of the Progeny.

There wasn't a worse thing to be.

Ira was baking beneath the heat of his thoughts until it began to expand in his chest as an explosion. The scorch of it rose up his throat to color his cheeks. By the time they'd arrived in front of apartment five-four-three, Ira was ready to burst.

Melchior fixed him with a cautious look. "Uh. . .are you going to open it?"

"Give me a minute." He rasped between tightly clenched teeth. 

Ira inhaled deeply through his nose and out his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to count. He'd developed the trick to sooth his settlement from nightmares to waking, but he'd found that it helped in most other things, too. So he recalled, from his well of dreams, just five things that made him someone new. 

Some days it was harder than others, but this one came to him easily, because he missed her most when he was feeling tumultuous. And now, above all else, he was feeling tumultuous.

His sweet Peter. She had never existed before. There was no version she knew besides Ira. It was through these seemingly insignificant connections and experiences that Ira could believe that he was a person worth existing here and now. Not even Father Pine really just saw Ira as Ira. To the Sect, he was a mosaic of past lives for the Progeny to pick apart. So he thought of Peter's soft striped coat and her wide shining eyes. And he counted it as one.

"Are you okay?" Melchior asked. His voice was not lacking concern, but it licked along the edges of Ira's wounds and filled them with new sting.

"I just need a minute!" He pressed. "If I'm wasting your time, just step around me."

Melchior ran fingers through his fine curls and shook his head. "Angels! I never said you were bothering me. All I did was ask if you were okay! Are we going to spend the next three months bickering?"

Ira blinked, clearing a heated daze from his mind. Why was fighting all he could manage to dedicate himself to? Because he'd been fighting all his life? What a pathetic excuse. Father Pine had said it many times, but Ira had never taken it much to heart before, Ira ran hot. He had a short fuse, made for big explosions, and it was all he could do to keep himself from burning up.

Ira had issues. Almost more than he could stand to count. But he would count it; as number two. He'd been in his loop long enough to see cities rise and empires fall, and none of his nightmares had ever been filled with memories of nightmares. Ira was the only life plagued by the knowledge of his past, he was the only life aware that something could be done to fix it. And he wouldn't see this opportunity wasted.

He looked at Melchior with renewed calm. This boy was his pilgrimage. If Ira could get them through this trial, then they'd be Bishops. The Sect would welcome them. Something, it seemed, neither boy had ever experienced or expected.

With the sword of the Progeny now behind his back, instead of carefully trained on his throat, maybe Ira could--he could what? Kill Beelzebub? The Third Prince of Hell was nearly immortal.

Nearly.

"I'm-" sorry. The word thickened in his mouth until his tongue was too feeble to make use of it. "-ready. Let's go in."

"Are you sure? If you need more time, I'm fine waiting." Melchior offered cautiously.

Ira shook his head, and it was a lie as clear as speaking. He needed time. He needed to finish his list, or his mind wouldn't settle. But he knew he couldn't. Every minute spent standing on the cusp was another minute the full moon grew closer. He could already feel the moment approaching when they would be out of time.

So he lifted his key from the soft confines of his black dress shirt and fit it into the lock. One, two. He twisted and pushed, and he walked into the next step of unknown.

The apartment was furnished, and there were even a few packets of ramen abandoned in the cupboard by the last Deacon to stay there. Which hinted at their next problem. This was an apartment meant for one.

Melchior laughed without humor. Ira turned bright red and looked away from the single bed. "Uh, you can take the room. I won't sleep much."

He'd try not to sleep at all, actually. He was already mortified at the idea of waking up the complex with his screams.

"Very noble of you, but I'm sure the Cardinal meant for you to take it." Melchior fixed his eyes on the couch and rolled his shoulders. The movement seemed stunted by stiffness.

"I don't want to imagine the Cardinal wonders where I'm sleeping at night." Ira muttered, but he knew what Melchior had meant. This was another dig at him being handed the envelope. So he marched to the couch and flung himself down into the soft velvet.

Melchior watched him with keen green eyes before wandering away to scout the rest of the accommodations. Allowed some brief reprevial from Melchior's attention, Ira disengaged from the sofa and began to explore for himself.

The apartment was small but not uncomfortable. The door was placed at the end of a short hall, lined with cubbies for any Deacon's outdoor needs; jackets, boots, and, of course, a wide variety of demon bone weaponry.

Branched from this annex was the kitchen that Ira had already scavenged. It was a simple closed kitchen with an oven years past new and a fridge that hummed as steadily as an engine.  Melchior was occupying himself there. He'd rooted around the well supplied area until he procured a pot. He was staring blankly into the water as it heated slowly on the stove.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you watched water doesn't boil?" Ira scolded, this time playfully.

Melchior smiled softly and shrugged. "An unattended pot boils over." Ira squinted up his eyes. He hadn't heard that one before. Maybe Melchior had just made it up. "I hope you like ramen because it's all we have." He sighed mournfully and tilted his head back. "I wish there was some tea left over."

"You like tea?" Ira questioned.

Melchior stiffened before puffing out a long exhale from his nose. "What? I don't seem the type?"

Ira nodded his head in agreement. "I didn't think tea was the select drink of the youth."

"You don't like tea?" Melchior surmised.

Ira laughed. "I'm not really a part of the youth." He glanced over his shoulder. "Have you looked at the bedroom yet?"

"No, didn't really feel right." Melchior shrugged.

"Do you mind if I?" Ira asked.

Melchior fixed him with hazel eyes and shook his head. "No, I don't care."

Ira entered the small room. He walked quietly because each step felt like an intrusion. The bed was bare, with a set of fresh dressings folded on the foot of it, laid out next to a pile of luggage. There was a dresser and a bedside table. Both dark oak to match the bed frame.

Ira's heart leapt in his throat. His sky blue eyes drank in the bags more carefully. Two suitcases, and a small plastic carrier. "Peter!" Ira gasped. He rushed to the animal crate and opened the hinges of the door. Peter mewed happily as Ira scooped her up in his arms.

Ira heard Melchior's footsteps rush from the kitchen. He paused in the doorway of the room, his eyes wide and flickering around the inside of the small space. They quickly settled on the cat curled up in Ira's arms.

"You found a cat?" He said slowly.

"No, Father Pine sent me my cat." Ira corrected. "Why? Are you allergic?"

"Uh, no. I'm just. . . really more of a dog person." Melchior mumbled awkwardly. "Who's going to take care of him while we go hunting?"

"Her."

"I thought I heard you shout for a Peter." Melchior raised an eyebrow.

"I did." Ira agreed. "Her name is Peter."

"Oh, that's. . . actually pretty cute." Melchior sighed like it had pained him to admit. Probably something to do with his aversion to cats, Ira laughed to himself.

"Don't worry about Peter. Cats are pretty independant, as long as I leave fresh water and stop by to drop food in the bowl--we'll be okay." He scratched her soft ear and frowned. Why had Father Pine sent her? He'd have a lot of work to do in the next three months--lives depended on him. Maybe Father Pine anticipated a moment when Ira would need her comfort, and it rolled his stomach into knots.

Did anyone think they'd be able to do this?

"Hey, I know that bag." Melchior stepped hesitantly into the bedroom. He paused for a moment, as if waiting to be chased off, but when Ira made no move, he came further into the room. Melchior picked up one of the two suitcases. It was gray and plain, but he held it like something precious. He slowly rolled back the zipper and froze.

"What's wrong?" Ira asked, gently placing Peter on the bed. She mewed before jumping down to leave the room.

Ira peaked over Melchior's shoulder. He didn't have many great habits.

The inside of the bag had been stuffed with a wide assortment of strange objects, but nothing that should have phased a Deacon of the Progeny. A roll of thin black twine, a short shaft of polished pine, a handful of Ossein tipped arrows, a pair of bone pliers. Beneath that, a layer of neatly folded shirts. Ira noticed the pill bottle, and quickly looked away.

There was something more interesting anyways. It was a small yellow sticky note, laid on top of his clothes. Scribbled in handwriting that Ira almost couldn't decipher, and then wished that he hadn't, was a message for Melchior.

Ira turned his eyes away, feeling suddenly burdened by the guilt blooming from his curiosity.

Melchior dug beneath the weapons to pick up the note. He held it in revere. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Angels, Ailbe." He whispered.

Ira turned his own attention to his suitcase. But the words remained in the forefront of his mind, he tried and failed to make sense of it.

I believe in you, pup. Enough to pack your toothbrush.