Twisted

Chapter One: A Monster

The boy skulked through the crowd, hiding his face behind his shaggy black locks. He was small, much smaller than he should have been, and was nearly lost between the masses of people that were trying to enter the tent. He slid in, ticketless, between the much larger tourists and found a seat high above the rest. In the shadows where he could watch everything, and remain unseen.

Harry Potter liked it much better that way. He always hid in the shadows, in lively places where no one would expect to find him. Harry sneered as the performance began. A mediocre magician pulling rabbits out of a hat—although, for some reason, these rabbits had fangs. So did the magician for that matter.

It had been a shock when he had finally managed to get to America. They were so open about magic. Vampires were legalized. Weres ran in packs…his sneer turned into a grimace. Even now, surrounded by thick walls of concrete, Harry could feel the weight of the moon, as she grew more full. Calling to him, with the sweet song of the forest: of shadows and moonlight and the scent of earth rising from his thundering paws.

With a shudder, Harry shut his mind to the tantalizing images. Luckily, Snape’s occulamency lessons were good for more than the headaches they had caused. They helped him tame the beast and lock away the bloodlust.

But it was almost too much when the door beside him opened and a group of people exited. Magic laced the air around them…but more prominent was the stench of blood…and sex. Without meaning to, Harry bolted up, back rigid and hands clenched. His pulse was throbbing as his guts twisted, like something inside of him was trying to claw its way out.

Dimly, he was aware that the group had stopped, and one of them was pointing a gun. He could smell the tang of metal and oil. Slowly, tensely, his head turned, as if he was fighting every second. Green eyes locked with black. They were cold eyes, as cold and dead as the magic inside of her. They challenged him, dared him to make one move.

He felt his lips lift in a snarl, and his chest rumbled with a growl that was too deep for the humans to hear. They wouldn’t have heard anyway…his magic kept him hidden. The woman tensed, he could see she was ready to pull the trigger, even as her companions whispered furiously.

Harry wanted to rip the challenge off of her face. He was cowed by no one. Not even this—“Necromancer.” Harry said, not recognizing his own voice.

The woman’s eyes widened slightly and the whispers around her stopped. All eyes looked at him. The brown man, a werewolf, breathed sharply before he asked, “How did you know that?”

Harry felt the corners of his lips twitch, and the thing inside him jerked in sympathy. “Why don’t you put that useless thing away…”he growled, “before I rip your hands off with it.”

Part of him knew that what he was doing was wrong. That he shouldn’t stand out, he should back down. The other, larger part, didn’t care. It wanted to see blood, wanted to conquer, wanted—

The man beside her growled and the musky scent of werewolf was released into the air. The smell made Harry’s guts cramp and his joints crack. Sweat dripped down his back and temples, but he held on. His panting breaths became more ragged as he forced the change back, and straightened. Each movement crunched and cracked so that his three attackers winced.

The man spoke as Harry trembled in the aftermath, and tried to catch his breath, “I am Ulfric of the Thronnos Rokke Clan and this is the Executioner, Anita Blake, do you really—”

Harry glared at them both, then laughed. It sounded evil, even to him. The other Were beside the woman, Anita, shifted further back, his blue eyes round with alarm. Harry knew who they were, he read the papers in the bins, he heard the whispers in the dark. He knew that they were feared—but he couldn’t see why. There was strong power there, but it was weakened, strung out and corrupted with negative emotion.

“You think you’re powerful?” Harry hissed, his laughter a little maniacal. He shuddered on the inside. It reminded him too much of Tom Riddle’s high-pitched cackle. The woman’s arm twitched, ready to shoot. Harry jerked his hand forward, and the gun shot to it with the wordless spell.

The woman gasped and Harry felt that darkness inside him rising. Not his beast, but the poison that had been there ever since he had killed Voldemort and his Death Eaters. He felt his teeth gnash together in a cruel smile as the gun hovered between his hands, and he thought another spell. The metal began to heat and then grow red as it melted from the inside. Hot metallic drops fell to the ground and hissed.

Harry lifted his eyes to the three. They glowed red, reflecting the burning ball of molten fire between his palms.

“You shouldn’t point guns, Anita Blake,” Harry said, still smiling, as the flames melted away. “It’s very insulting.” The smell of fear pervaded the air around him. He took a step forward, and the Ulfric moved. Before he even thought it, Harry cast stunning spells at both of the men. They dropped like stones. Anita backed up to the wall, her fear like candy on Harry’s tongue. It made his wolf want to come out and play…but no. He pushed it back, the cold blackness that was filling him made it easier this time.

He took another step closer and felt her tug on that magic cord. The one that bound her to the Ulfric…and another.

Harry’s smile widened.

“Oh, do call him. The more the merrier,” he let his voice drop to a whisper, as he moved in. “I’ll destroy them all.”

A strangled sound came from her throat and her eyes darted around wildly. He could see the confusion and terror on her face. He knew what she was thinking. Why didn’t anyone notice?

“They won’t see,” Harry whispered on, close enough to see the sheen of sweat on her upper lip. He looked down at the crowd as Anita stood, paralyzed with fear. He could see Weres looking right and left, searching for something. He cast a puzzled glance at Anita. She did belong to the Master of the City…was that the other man she was connected too?

Harry took the last step, the one that put him only an inch away. He didn’t have to look down far to glare into her black eyes, shiny with terror. She was whispering under her breath, “…though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”

His eyes narrowed and her voice grew a tinier bit stronger, “…for though art with me…”

Harry knew about Christians. Hermione had told him about the religion once. He had unfortunately etched the experience into his memory. Did this woman think he was…the Devil? Or perhaps, a demon? A wicked thought burned through his mind. It was too cruel, part of him whispered. The other just laughed.

He leaned in, so that his breath gusted across her ear. “Why would your prayers work on me?” he breathed, “I don’t see any god with you.”

She gasped and let out a cry, a hand shooting to the silver cross on her chest. Harry plucked it up between his fingers, and her face was too ridiculous. The look told him that he should have burst into flames or have been howling in pain by now. He tutted and jerked the necklace from her neck. The thin chain snapped easily, though the silver did sting a bit.

The woman let out a whimper, and then her expression changed, as if she was disgusted with herself. Harry raised a brow. There was no challenge here. Not anymore. Without the challenge there was no fun. He felt the darkness whither away, and he was left staring at her, only slightly annoyed at the waste of his time.

He sighed and flicked the necklace back at her. She caught it, slightly surprised. Harry sat back down on the bench, facing her and sighed. She watched him warily with those dark eyes. “You weren’t as fun as I thought you’d be,” he stated flatly.

He waved his hands casually at the two bodies at his feet. They both took gasping breaths and jerked up.

“What are you?” The Executioner breathed.

Harry was suddenly disgusted with himself. He stared directly into those accusing eyes before he said, just loud enough for her to hear, “A monster.”

Before the other two could get their bearings Harry stood and dissapperated with a loud crack!

………………………………..


Jean-Claude’s bedroom may have been decorated with the most luxurious of blankets and the most decadent fire place I had ever seen, but the room did nothing to cure the cold that had settled into my chest. Richard and Jean-Claude were whispering fervently behind the couch where Jason and I huddled. I let Jason hold me partly because he needed to, and partly because I just wanted someone to hold me.

His arms hugged me tighter as I shivered at the memories, my confidence cracked down to the core. I knew that there were monsters out there, hell, half of the time I thought I was one of them, but tonight…I shuddered, and Jason stuck his nose behind my ear. I felt him breath in the comfort, and took some when he rubbed his cheek against my neck. The comfort of the pack.

That thing…that boy. I noticed him because of the lycanthrope energy that had been pulsing around him like a black cloud. I had pulled my gun because of his sudden movement, but I hadn’t wanted to shoot until I had seen his eyes. Those green eyes had nothing human in them, except maybe insanity.

That’s what I thought at first, until he had pulled the gun out of my hand with freaking magic. Telekenisis, I had reasoned. Shock, pain, and loss tore through me when he had melted my Browning. I pushed closer to the warm body beside me, feeling vulnerable without the weapon. But still, advanced pyrokenesis, I thought frantically, the panic starting to settle in at the idea of a werewolf with those abilities.

His face…the one that had looked so delicate and beautiful at the end…it had been twisted with so much rage…

“Ma petite.”

I blinked, and saw Jean-Claude kneeling in front of me, Richard standing behind him looking murderous. I stared at him for a second. It was a new look for him.

“Ma petite,” Jean-Claude said again, his fingers curling softly under my chin so that I would look at him. “Richard has told me what he can remember, but he admits that he was…incapacitated during the event. You alone remained…you must tell us what you saw.”

I swallowed with a dry tongue and nodded.

“I thought he was a normal lycanthrope at first, maybe a newbie who couldn’t control it yet. But he didn’t cower at Richard, he didn’t even seem to notice him at first—“

“An alpha,” Richard interrupted. “Extremely powerful…if he hadn’t threatened you Anita…” Guilt and shame passed through the marks even though they were partially closed. It must have been overwhelming for him.

“You couldn’t help using your power—“ I started, but he shook his head vehemently.

“It was me who wanted to look away!” he cried, and I felt Jason stiffen around me. I glanced over and the face he gave his Ulfric; it was pure disbelief. And a little fear.

Jean-Claude stood, a frown marring his perfect features.

“You mean to say…”

“He’s stronger than me,” Richard whispered.

“How much stronger?” I could see the wheels turning in the vampire’s head. How much of a threat was this boy?

Richard shook his head, eyes lost. “Godlike.”

Silence.

“Explain,” was all that Jean-Claude said, his eyes narrowed.

“He pulled back from the change as if it was nothing. Once you start, it’s almost impossible to go back, but it was as if his anger gave him the strength to pull back.” Richard shook his head again, eyes slightly wide. “It doesn’t work that way. Rage should have made it quicker and more violent.”

“He had magic too,” Jason breathed. I looked at him again, but his gaze was lost in the flames. Was he remembering how the gun had been incinerated? How he had been incapacitated without a second’s warning? Jason paled. “He’s not a god, is he?”

I recalled how no one seemed to hear us, or see us. Even the Wererats sent by Jean-Claude hadn’t noticed all the magic until the thing had disappeared. “I thought he was a demon…” I had even started Psalm 23, but he hadn’t so much as flinched. “He said he saw no God with me.”

I whispered that final statement, the cold hollow feeling aching in my chest. Was it true? Were my hands so stained? My eyes so blind? Had God forsaken me? I remembered his hot breath as he had whispered those words into my ear, and the pain that had cut so deeply. But…it felt wrong. He had been cruel, he was powerful…but that thrust of evil that I had felt with other demons had been missing. I shook my head, and felt a little relief sink back into my soul.

With a sigh, I returned from questioning my faith. They were staring at me, and I wondered how long I had been zoned out. “But he’s not a demon,” I said, with some confidence. “He was more neutral than that.”

“What do you mean?” Richard said, his expression one of shock. “When Jason and I came to, you were terrified.”

I shook my head. “Something doesn’t have to be evil to be terrifying,” I said. “He let me go in the end. Something evil would have reveled in my fear, but he was…disappointed.”

“Ma petite?” Jean-Claude was kneeling in front of me again. I stared into his beautiful blue eyes, so different from those disturbing green orbs.

“He told me, after he said he saw no God with me, that I was boring. He thought I would’ve been more fun…”

My voice trailed off as I remembered those last words and that haunted look. “He called himself a monster.”

I almost felt something like pity stirring inside. He had seemed so young then. But I hardened once again. He was dangerous.

“I don’t know what he is,” I finally said. “Maybe he was once a god, or a demigod.” That would make some sense, but then I shook my head. “But how could a god or demigod contract lycanthropy?” Back at square one again.

“Was it really lycanthropy?” Richard asked. “It felt like it, but…”

I knew why Richard was grasping at the divine theory. It hurt an Ulfric’s ego a lot less to be submissive to a god than some kid.

But I knew lycanthropy when I felt it. I recalled his accent and a new thought struck. “Maybe werewolves are different in England? Like trolls.”

Jean-Claude’s head snapped up. “Would you repeat that, mon amor?”

“What? Maybe werewolves are different in England? Like trolls?”

“Why would you think he is from England? Did he say so?”

I shook my head. “No, he had an accent.

“Accents can be faked, ma petite, but perhaps…”Jean-Claude stood up and then looked down at me. His expression softened slightly. “Perhaps there is something to your theory. I will have to ask…” Suddenly, his eyes were far away and I knew he was thinking. Jean-Claude knew something, I could figure that much out. What it was, I’d have to wait to find out. That annoyed the hell out of me.