Switch Blade Romance

Lavender Moon

After Charles finished, he climbed off Andrew, who lay facedown on the couch, dulled and distant, like a man who'd been hollowed out and left standing. The vinyl stuck to his skin in cold patches. Charles gave Andrew's bare bottom a casual pat, almost affectionate, the way you'd pat a dog after a walk.
"Get dressed, baby. I got something to show you outside."
Andrew sat up slow, movements mechanical, pulling on clothes like they belonged to someone else. Charles stood there watching, that same easy smile on his face—the one that made Andrew want to grab the nearest heavy thing and smash it until nothing smiled anymore.
Andrew stood. Charles extended a hand.
"Come on, baby. Take it."
Andrew looked at the hand like it was a live wire. Reluctantly, he took it. Charles led him out onto the porch.
Mid-January cold hit like a slap. Andrew started shivering hard; he was only in a thin brown T-shirt and jeans. The air smelled of pine and frost and something older, something that had been waiting in these hills a long time.
"You're cold, aren't you?" Charles said.
Andrew hesitated, then nodded.
"Come here. I'll keep you warm."
Charles pulled him close, arm around his shoulders, drawing him in. For a second—just a second—Andrew felt the ghost of the old Aiden: sweet, sensitive, the guy who'd made him laugh in lecture halls and hold hands under tables. That guy had seemed real. But there'd never been an Aiden. Only Charles, wearing the mask so well it fooled everyone, even Andrew. Especially Andrew.
Charles walked him across the yard to a spot near the woodpile, dead branches stacked like bones.
"Okay, Andrew. Look up. Tell me what you see."
Andrew tilted his head slow. The moon hung fat and low, big as a dinner plate, wrapped in a bluish haze that shaded almost lavender. It looked wrong somehow, like it knew things it shouldn't.
"It's beautiful," Andrew said, voice small.
"Yes it is, baby. I wanted you to see it. My stepfather always said when the moon looks like that, it's a sign. Someone's gonna be born. Someone's gonna get married. Or someone's gonna die."
Andrew spun at the last word. "Die? Charles, you're going to kill me, aren't you? Please don't. I don't want to die."
Charles's face stayed calm, almost gentle. He pressed a finger to Andrew's lips.
"Shush, baby. No talking right now."
Andrew started to cry—quiet, hopeless sobs. Charles reached into his pocket. Andrew flinched, expecting the switchblade, the quick silver flash.
Instead, Charles pulled out two rings. Plain gold bands, nothing fancy, but they caught the moonlight like they had teeth.
"Andrew, I want to marry you. I've been in love with you since that first day in class. I can't see myself with anyone else. Do you feel the same?"
Andrew's mind screamed: No. No, I don't. You're a killer. A rapist. A monster wearing a man's face. I hate you. But the other part—the part that wanted to live—whispered: Say yes. Say yes and buy time. Get away later.
He forced a smile. "Yes. Yes, I do, Charles."
Charles's face lit up like a kid on Christmas. "Then you'll do me the honor of being my husband?"
Andrew smiled again, lips trembling. "Yes. I will."
"Perfect."
Charles slid one ring onto Andrew's right index finger. Then the other onto his own. He held up his hand.
"You see this ring, Andrew?"
"Yes, baby. I do."
Charles nodded, serious now. "These rings mean eternity. A bond that can't be broken. No matter what."
He brought out the switchblade next. Andrew jerked back.
"Charles, what—stop—"
But Charles grabbed his right hand, palm up, and sliced quick across the palm. Pain bloomed hot and bright. Andrew screamed.
"Oh, shut up, you crybaby. It didn't hurt that bad, did it?"
Charles sliced his own palm, then pressed their hands together. Blood mingled, warm and sticky, dripping onto the frost-bitten ground where it froze almost instantly in dark little beads.
"Now we're married," Charles said softly. "Till death do us part. And maybe not even then. There's a part of me inside you now, Andrew. And a part of you inside me. It'll flow there forever and ever."
He squeezed once, then let go.
"Come on. Let's go inside and sleep. Tomorrow I'll take you fishing."
They walked back to the cabin. The moon watched them go, calm and indifferent, the way it always had in these hills.Annabelle, Texas
January 19, 12:45 p.m.
Lacey stood in the middle of Andrew's apartment, not sure what she was looking for. All she knew was her best friend wasn't here anymore, and the place felt wrong. Hollow. Like the air itself had been scooped out.
In the past few months she'd lost more friends than a girl her age—twenty-one, for God's sake—should ever have to bury. Or mourn. Or pretend weren't gone.
The couch still sat there, the one where she, Casey, Rachel, Andrew, and Max had piled on Thursday nights to watch The Vampire Diaries, yelling at the screen, throwing popcorn. One time Andrew had let her crash after a screaming match with her roommate; she'd slept on that same couch, safe, laughing about nothing the next morning.
Now it was all ghosts.
The cops had finally released the apartment as a crime scene. They'd taken what they needed—blood samples, fibers, the ugly little truths left behind. Andrew's parents were due any minute to pack up some of his things, take them home like pieces of a life that might never come back.
Rachel had said it plain: Even if they found him alive, he probably wouldn't live here again. Why would he? A friend murdered in the kitchen. Another almost bled out right here in the living room. Max was improving in the hospital—slow, but steady. Anita had opened her eyes yesterday, spoken a few words. Lacey hadn't told her about Andrew being taken. Doctors said best not to, not yet.
Lacey finally remembered why she'd come: LaLaurie's dog bed. The little mutt was getting released from the vet today. Lacey had offered to take her home, give her a soft place to land.
She walked into the kitchen. The chalk outline was still there—faint now, but unmistakable. Deira's shape on the tile. Lacey started trembling. Then the dam broke. She sank against the counter and cried—deep, wrenching sobs that hurt her chest. She cried for Andrew, for the nights that would never come back, for the stupid, ordinary things she'd never get to do with her friends again.
When the tears ran dry, she got up, wiped her face, picked up the dog bed—still smelling faintly of LaLaurie—and headed for the door.
She looked around one last time. The apartment didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like a crypt. A tomb. A grave waiting for the next body.
Unease crawled up her spine. She flicked off the lights, stepped out, and pulled the door shut behind her.
The hallway was quiet. Somewhere down the corridor, a TV murmured through a wall.
Lacey walked away fast, clutching the bed like it was the last warm thing left in the world.
And outside, in the gray January light, the town went on as if nothing had changed.
But something had. Something dark had slipped in, quiet as a shadow under a door, and it wasn't leaving anytime soon.