Page 1 of Behemoth

PROLOGUE

For years I have hidden in the dark shadows of life. Not truly living...just existing. Not allowing many in; as once they take a look at me, all I would see was their backs as they ran from the horror that is me. There is nothing I can do to change my appearance at this point. The damage has been done, and by those who should have protected me.

Thinking back to when my nightmare started, I can almost feel the terror overtaking me. While I relax in my recliner, I gaze out the back wall of windows to see the beautiful scene in my remote backyard. Years ago, I finally took the plunge to actually purchase my first and only home; a solitary cabin deep in the woods. Maintaining my solitude helps to keep the voices in my head quiet, so after many years of avoidance, my mind is finally able to accept that my life works this way. Well, that doesn't include my brothers from the firehouse and the club.

I am a man with two very different personas in one body. A body that lives two lives so far apart from one another, it’s kind of funny.

First, my valiant side: I am a firefighter in town, going on almost fifteen years. Because of the way my existence started and the special abilities I was gifted at birth, I’ve always had the need and want to help people. Saving others has fulfilled me in ways I could never explain.

My second side, the darker side: I’m a nomad in a motorcycle club. I have been a part of the MC since I turned eighteen. Those same abilities have assisted the club, in many different ways, through some of their darker days during my time with them. While my prez is the only one who knows the full extent of my unique skills, the brothers in the club have figured out I’m not like them and it explains why being a nomad is the only way for me. They have been my saving grace, which has allowed me the ability to heal, something I have needed for a long time.

Both groups of my brothers accept me for who I have fought to be. That includes scars, nightmares, abilities that would freak the fuck out of most people, and all the bullshit left from my childhood. A childhood horror stories are made of.

Growing up, I was terrorized and brutalized for many years by my parents. Yeah, my own fuckin’ parents. It started before I was able to comprehend what, why, and how. My mom is a direct descendant of Victor Frankenstein, and she married my dad, who was just a druggie and whack job. Joseph Stein, aka my dad, thought it would be a cool idea to see if they could make money off the bloodline of my mom's family. So when they started having kids, we became their experiments.

Looking back, I guess I'm one of the lucky ones because I survived their craziness. In my mind and heart I truly believe it was because of the gifts or abilities we have within us we were able to survive. Two of my brothers paid the ultimate price, their lives, due to our parents’ brutality. One of my sisters is living her life in a mental ward, even though her IQ is off the charts. Her intelligence, along with her ‘powers,’ scared her so much she prefers to get by being medicated and removed from life itself. All that is left now are my twin sisters, Eternity and Celeste, and myself. I am Francis N. Stein, or as my parents called me: Frankenstein. Yeah, sick sons of bitches who wanted to make money off their kids they abused and tortured. If they only knew that each of their children had abilities they could have profited more from than the abuse they put us through.

From before I could remember, they carved me up to resemble my namesake—after they learned from their mistakes with the deaths of my brothers about how far they could go with their torture—and how much a human body could take.

I know what I will see looking back at me in the reflection of the mirror: my mutilated face. The worst feature is a long, jagged mark down my left cheek. My body has scars all over, duplicating the original monster’s, so in my parents’ sick minds, I indeed looked the part. The worst thing I endured were the implants that were placed on the sides of my neck by a piercer who was one of their friends. So all in all, in the end I looked pretty much just like the monster from the storybooks. I feel more in touch with the monster than any family history or relations.

Being just shy of six and a half feet tall, my size intimidates many, which was made worse when I became a prospect with the MC, and some of the brothers took me under their wing and taught me how to use my body to my advantage by lifting weights and bulking up. It was one of the best feelings in the world, being able to build muscle and learning to finally be able to protect myself.

When I finally got my kutte, along with the three club patches, it was an honor to finally be able to also put the club tattoo on my back. I wear all of it proudly. My prez, Brick, explained the importance of the three-piecepatches. It reflects that our particular club is a traditional MC club. With the top rocker being the club name, the middle being theirpatch,and the bottom being the territory they exist in or in my case nomad.That nomad status allows me the best of both worlds.

My regular job saves lives, and my MC life allows me to live how I need to, nope, how I crave. The club life helps me get rid of the rage that builds up in me until it’s uncontrollable. Being a nomad lets me live my life in solitude, but still be part of a brotherhood that lives by their own set of rules.

Couldn't ask for anything else. Well, I could but don't think it will ever come my way. Finding someone who could love a modern-day monster, who at times scares himself when he looks in the mirror and has the skills to read people’s thoughts, doesn't seem likely. Just saying.

So, as I go thorough my day-to-day life, I’ve always wonder which me will win out the good or dark side of me. Will it be Francis the firefighter; or the dark, brooding side, Stitch the badass nomad of a MC. Either way, I can use the powers within me to assist in whatever part of my life I see fit. Who will win?

Only time will tell.

CHAPTER ONE

Francis

Another damn forty-eight-hour shift at the firehouse. Sometimes these hours can drag on if we don't receive any calls. Or maybe it’s pitiful that I am waiting for a call so I don't have to sit on my ass doing nothing. Kind of depressing I’m actually waiting for a disaster to fill my day.

Guess I could probably go down to the gym we have here in the house, but a class of kids is supposed to be taking a tour today of the firehouse and I don't want to scare them away. It has happened numerous times over the years, so I have learned to just stay in our bunkroom, out of sight.

Lying back on my bed, I look through the motorcycle magazine, continuing reading the story that caught my attention. It’s about a really old dude nicknamed Pops, in his mid-eighties, still riding and enjoying the hell out of it. The pictures reveal an older Harley motorcycle with the extra kit or training wheels in the back so he can enjoy riding without all the weight of his bike. The concept is awesome as it keeps him active in the world he loves.

I’m so absorbed in the story; I don't hear the door open until it slams shut. Immediately I feel the tingling I get when I’m around one of my own. A similar individual, who walks this strange realm between the normal world and where I landed. They possess skills or talents similar to my own. Looking over the top of the magazine, I see a small young boy’s eyes widen, looking right at me, mouth open in a huge O. I’m aware his shocked expression is not because of my appearance, but because he wasn’t expecting to stumble upon someone in one of the bunks. Well, that will change as soon as he sees me. Trying to get a read on him, I get nothing. His mind is blank and he isn’t displaying any kind of fear or anxiety at all. This is strange to say the least.

Dropping the magazine to my side, I swing my legs over the edge and stand up. The kid's mouth drops even wider and his eyes are popping out of his head. Slowly approaching him, I put my hand out, not even sure why because I generally don’t shake hands with people I don’t know. When touching people, I am usually bombarded with their thoughts and emotional baggage, so I try to avoid touching them at all if possible. Don’t want to see their demons, have enough of my own. Lowering my voice so it comes out softly, not my usual gruff sound, I try for a calm approach on my introduction.

"Hey, little dude, I'm Francis. What’s your name?"

After looking at my scarred hand for a minute or so, he raises his up and grabs mine loosely. Immediately I feel a weird sensation, kind of like an electrical shock with intense warmth flowing from him to me, and we both stare at each other. If the sense I got off him when he first came into the room wasn’t confirmation enough of his own special abilities, shaking his hand certainly proved it. Not sure he realizes it just yet.

"Hi, I'm...um...My name is Damien. I'm here on a field trip to see the firehouse. You're one right, a fireman? We’re here to see firemen. Oh man, I forgot, the teacher said to call you fire people because girls do this now, too."

Shaking his small hand in mine, I'm amazed he hasn't gone running from the room. An extraordinary feeling of peace embraces me as we continue to shake hands, putting me instantly at ease. Something I have never felt before meeting someone new. When I go to release him, I look at his hand and realize it’s badly scarred and disfigured. Maybe that’s why he is okay in my company, because he understands, no, he gets it. Or maybe even if he doesn’t understand, his gift still puts him at ease. I can only hope.

"So, Damien, do you have any questions for me regarding the firehouse or what we do? I'll answer any of your questions the best I can. My first question to you is: how old are you?"

"I'm eight, going to be nine in about three weeks. Mom says I'm kind of small for my age, but also that boys continue to grow way longer than girls do, so I still have some hope. Francis, how frigging tall are you? You are huge—I mean—you are so. No, that didn't come out right. I just mean, I hope to be as big as you when I’m done growing."

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