Wiccan Act One: Occult

36 | Fractured Souls

Cyrus

XXVI

The first thing Cyrus did in Paris was scream at the very top of his lungs. His cries merged with the noisy atmosphere around him making his emotions feel even more unheard.

He collapsed on the balcony he stepped onto hugging his knees tightly, letting the tears swell and run down his face. He was so stupid. Of course it was too good to be true. Michael had only done all of those nice things as an act. It wasn't to help him or to bond but rather a means to an end as he stayed under the radar.

Cyrus's heart sank way more than he thought it would. He had already escaped. He was on a whole other continent and yet it felt like he was still back home, fighting Michael with everything he had.

He was so tired of all of this witch stuff. All of it had been a horrid dream he desperately wanted to wake up from. Why him? It was heartbreak after heartbreak and all for what?

The air brushed across his face, making his tears ice cold. He probably looked worthless right now. Like he always did.

To think life was a lot simpler the night he crashed his car into the school and the police drove him home. It all happened so fast. He had a terrible day at school and lashed out at Christian resulting in probably their biggest fights. Aunt Rose was at work but that didn't matter. He wouldn't have talked to her either way. All Cyrus wanted that night was to talk to his dad. Seven missed calls later he finally gave up and went for a bottle. Then two. Then three. He wanted to give his father something he had to answer to and finally have the attention on him for more than a second. Some good that did.

He would take Aunt Rose's furious face over all of this right now.

The only thing that got him over Hazel's death in the first place was the investigation to find her killer and stop all of this. He didn't think for a second that it could be Michael.

Cyrus's hands shook uncontrollably. He wanted more than anything to punch something hard enough to leave bruises on his knuckles. All that anger and hatred he had pointed at a mystery figure before didn't just disapper. If he hurt or killed Michael for what he did to Hazel, he was no better than him nor Max. The cycle had to end somewhere. Someone had to rise above all the rage and ignorance. Cyrus had to be different.

Wiping away the tears, he got back to his feet, taking once last look at the city. He was definitely taking his aunt here one day but to do that, there was something he needed to do first.

...

It took him nearly an hour to get back home.

Cyrus figured out the hard way that it was difficult to navigate his abilities and teleport when there wasn't a ghost lady guiding him subconsciously. His first attempt failed miserably as he opened the door to the bathroom of a French woman in the middle of a bubble bath. Safe to say that wasn't his best moment.

The second time took him from that bathroom to a bodega in New York city where a nice old man gave him a sandwich and asked if he was lost. Using all that magic took a lot of out him and resulted in Cyrus throwing up half of the old man's sandwich before he could properly gather himself. It took one look in the mirror to see that he had greatly exerted himself. His eyes were bloodshot with bags under them, his skin looked pail and there was still little vomit stains on his shirt. Still, all he could think about was what could be happening back in Oakwood with Michael and his friends.

Worst yet, he was unable to contact any of them because he somehow managed to shatter his phone in the fight with Michael. Ugh. But at least he was in America again. That was better than nothing.