Page 33 of Runaways

"Okay, I don't want to make this awkward, but we're a really close-knit group of friends, and I had to beg them to let me invite someone else, so I don't think they're going to be super happy that you brought a guest without even telling me."

"I get it, but look at it from my perspective—you're a stranger who invited me to a secluded house in the woods. I've watched enough true crime television to know that doesn't always end well. I kind of freaked out, and I asked someone to come with me at the last minute. That's not that big of a deal, is it?"

"I guess not," Charlie says. "He's not your boyfriend or anything, right?"

"No."

I turn, locking the bedroom door.

"Oh…" Charlie says. He sits on the edge of the bed.

I walk toward him until I'm standing between his legs. "I lied," I tell him. "Silas is my boyfriend."

"Oh…well...do you guys have some kind of arrangement? Because I thought this was—"

"Yeah, we do," I say, grabbing him by the throat. At first, he's excited, but then I apply more pressure, my eyes hardening, and he realizes he's supposed to be scared. It's thrilling…in more ways than one. My dick has been rock solid since I sucked Silas dry in the car; now, it's throbbing so hard, I'll be surprised if I don't come in my pants.

I could make him suck it first. I could slit his throat while I come down it.

But he doesn't deserve the privilege. And if I can wait until we're done, god…think of how good it'll feel.

"The arrangement is that we're here to kill all of you."

It's when he tries to speak and can't get a sound out that fear finally takes over. He thrashes against my hold, and I pin him to the bed with a hand over his throat and a knee in his stomach.

"Ew, you should just kill yourself, you gross bitch. No one cares about you,"I quote to him, and his eyes widen. "That's what you told my sister. That's one of themany thingsyou sent to my twin sister the week she died."

With my free hand, I pull my knife from my pocket, flipping it open with my wrist. "Icared about her. And she wasn't fucking lying."

I drive the knife into the side of his neck, and when I pull it out, blood spurts from the wound. It's darker and thicker than I expected—it must have something to do with the volume that comes with hitting a major artery, which is new for me. Withmy knee still pinning him to the bed, I watch as he chokes and flails beneath me.

It's so satisfying—even more so than I expected. As his blood saturates the white down comforter, my own continues rushing to my dick; it has its own pulse now. It's all I can do to keep from pulling it out and stroking it.

Yeah. This is so fucking good, but so very bad.

"Sorry, Charlie," I say, and then laugh. "Actually, I'm not sorry."

I drive my hunting knife into his chest eight or nine more times—until his shirt is nothing but blood-soaked ribbons and I'm sure he's stopped breathing. Then I take a moment to catch my own breath, admiring my work.

He looks like a painting—white, tattered, bloodstained shirt against the matching blood-soaked comforter; cold, dead, dark eyes.

It's art. I pull out my phone and take a picture.

Now I'm a photographer, too.

I lock the door from the inside before leaving the room and closing it behind me. An involuntary smile spreads across my face when I meet Silas's eyes.

"That was…quick and quiet," Silas says.

"It was too good," I tell him. "One down, seven to go. I should go wash my hands."

five

The "Lying Bitch" Special

Noah

I'm a nervous fucking wreck.

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