Switch Blade Romance

Violet

" And The Sky Was Made Of Amethyst"

Patrick let out a small, broken groan as Andrew hauled him down the hallway toward the basement stairs, the boy's heels scraping faint red trails on the worn pine floorboards. Andrew stopped at the head of the stairs, the door yawning open like a black mouth. Just moments ago he'd seen Charles-no, the thing that called itself Charles now-dragging Micha down into that darkness. The thought came quick and bright, the way good ideas sometimes do when you're scared half to death: I could end this right here. Grab Micha, slam the door, throw the bolt, snatch the keys from Patrick's pocket, and run like hell for the car. Get out before the night swallows us all.
But before the thought could root itself, before it could grow into anything like courage, the voice rose from below-low, amused, and wrong in all the ways a human voice shouldn't be.
"Andrew. Bring him down here now. Don't make me come up there and fetch you both."
Andrew's guts turned to cold water. He tightened his grip on Patrick's arm and started down, one slow step after another.
Micha stirred then, eyelids fluttering. His voice came out cracked and wet, like gravel dragged over broken glass. "Please, Larry... don't. We got family, me and Pat. Kids. Don't do this."
Andrew couldn't answer. He could only look down at the man he'd once laughed with over cheap beer and bad horror movies, and feel the helplessness settle in his bones like damp rot. A year ago he'd been just another college kid, worrying about grades and girls and what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life. Now here he was, accessory to murder, maybe about to become the real thing.
The stairs went down forever, or felt like it. The air thickened with every step-musky, choking, full of old chimney soot and something sweeter underneath, like meat left too long in the dark. Light flickered up from somewhere deeper in, orange and unsteady. Christ, Andrew thought, this place is bigger than the house. It's a goddamn cave.
At the bottom Patrick's head bounced once, softly, against the last tread. Another groan leaked out of him.
The basement opened up like something dreamed up in a fever. A black throne squatted in the center, its arms and back pieced together from what looked like human ribs, a grinning skull perched at the top like a crown. A bearskin rug lay spread before it, the fur matted and dark with old stains. Photographs covered the walls-men in robes at altars, bodies stretched out like offerings, daggers raised high. Above the massive stone fireplace loomed an inverted pentagram, painted in something thick and black that had dripped in long, slow tears. Beside the hearth stood an altar of rough granite, the kind you'd see in old movies about devil-worshippers, except this one was real, and the blood on it was still wet.
Charles was there, tying Patrick to the stone slab. Patrick wasn't dead yet; his head lolled side to side, moans bubbling through what was left of his mouth. Blood drooled down his chin in thick strings.
Charles glanced up and smiled, the smile of a man who'd just remembered a good joke. "Good. You brought the other one."
Andrew stood frozen. "What are you gonna do with them... Aiden?"
The head snapped up. "I told you to call me Charles."
"I-I'm sorry-"
Charles mimicked the stutter, high and mocking. "You gonna get it out anytime soon, Stuttering Bill?" He laughed, then walked over and clapped Andrew on the shoulder-hard enough to make him flinch. "Lighten up, baby. Just kidding."
Andrew jerked away. Charles frowned, then shrugged. "Anyway. Let's get started."
He grabbed Micha by the ankle and dragged him across the floor to the throne, dumped him into it like a sack of laundry. Micha screamed. Charles clamped a hand around his throat, leaned in close. "Hey. Hey. Shut up, or I'll bite your tongue out. Just like I did your husband's."
Micha hawked and spat in his face.
Charles recoiled, wiped it away slow. Then he laughed-low, rolling, the laugh of something that had seen this play out a thousand times. "Oh, that's rich. That line never gets old. Right up there with 'Why are you doing this?' 'Please don't kill me.' 'Stop, I'll do anything.' You boys always trot out the greatest hits at the end. And the praying-God, the praying. Does it ever work?" He cocked his head. "No. No, it doesn't."
He reared back and drove a fist into Micha's face. Bone cracked like dry wood. Blood bloomed from Micha's nose in a bright sheet.
"Now," Charles said, "if there aren't any more interruptions..."
He killed the lights.
Darkness swallowed everything for three long minutes-thick, breathing darkness. Then the fireplace roared to life, flames leaping high and hungry, heat rolling out in a wave that made Andrew's skin feel too tight. Charles peeled off his shirt. His body gleamed in the firelight, all corded muscle and old scars. He slipped a porcelain doll-mask over his face-blank eyes, rouged cheeks, a small red mouth frozen in a smile that wasn't a smile at all.
He crossed to the mantel, flicked on an old radio. Drums rolled out-ancient, pounding, the kind of rhythm that lived in the blood before words. Charles turned toward Andrew.
Andrew backed up a step.
Those eyes-Charles's eyes-flared green, bright as poison. When he spoke, the voice was deeper, twisted, like something dragged up from under the earth. "You don't want to run, Andrew. I can assure you that's the last thing you want to do."
Andrew froze, staring at the stairs. So close. Just run. He couldn't be that fast.
A hand clamped the back of Andrew's neck-hard, fingers like iron. "Didn't I tell you to look at me?"
Andrew gasped. "Yes-I'm sorry-please-"
The punch to the stomach folded him in half. Air whooshed out; he hit the floor, curling around the pain.
"Now," Charles said, calm as Sunday, "let's begin."
He moved to the altar. Patrick thrashed weakly. Charles selected a knife from the table beside it-long, crude, flaked stone edges like something from before history learned mercy. He began to chant, low and rolling.
"I am the king of every dirty place. I am the darkness in the soul of every man. I bring forth the hatred and worse in the smallest of the small. I am both the darkness and the unclean thing that lives there."
He grabbed Patrick between the legs. Andrew thought, Oh God, no, please no-
The knife moved.
Patrick's scream split the air-high, animal, endless. He bucked against the ropes. Micha howled from the throne, straining. Andrew curled tighter on the cold floor, rocking, tears cutting tracks through the soot on his face.
Charles worked. Pieces went into the fire. The flames leaped, red and eager. For a second Andrew thought he saw a face in them-a doll's face, just like the mask, smiling.
The knife plunged again, opening Patrick from groin to breastbone. Patrick's eyes rolled white; his screams thinned to wet gurgles. Charles reached in, pulled out wet handfuls, fed them to the blaze.
Andrew banged his head against the stone floor, once, twice. He had to get out of his own skull or it would break. He started to sing-soft, under his breath-the old song that always came when things got bad.
And the sky was made of amethyst... and all the stars looked just like little fish...
Charles carried Patrick's head to the fireplace. Tossed it in like trash.
The world tilted. Andrew felt himself falling backward into cool, quiet dark. The screaming faded. The firelight dimmed.
He welcomed the black.