NOTE: This chapter is a BONUS chapter, probably would have been added had I written it at the time. This is from the perspective of John Vanderbilt in the fixed timeline, after Elijah performed Tempus Infinituum in the future. This would have been added around Chapters 10 or 11 of this story. I hope you enjoy this little piece! Leave Reviews, and be sure to keep up with my other work by following, favoriting, and check me out on Wattpad (Jurana Keri). I hope to write a fanfic for AHS: 1984 when it comes out, but we shall see!

What's up? Here for an autograph, or are you a cop trying to nab me for my "escape"? No? Okay… that's fair. Name's John Vanderbilt. You've probably seen me on TV or bought tickets to see me take someone down. Or maybe you heard I killed a man by accident in the ring and was found guilty simply because my fists were considered "deadly weapons" in court. More on that in a bit. I was not always like this. I was always a bit weird, in fact, even by normal standards.

I was born November 23, 1985 in Dallas, Texas. No, smartass, I am not a cowboy. I don't have much of an accent either. Well, maybe a little just from living here – both of my parents are from outside of Texas; mom from New York, dad from California. My mom had me late in life, at age 39. My dad was older. They had tried for years to conceive but failed until they got me. My father is related to the Vanderbilt dynasty, who made their fortune off railroads a really long time ago. One of his cousins in California was loaded, a billionaire, and he often helped our part of the family out financially. My father was well-to-do by association. Sometimes I would play with Trevor, his son, who was two years older than me. His older sister, Coco, was a brat. Little did I know she was different, just like me, until years later.

I am a warlock. I did not find out until I was 30 or so, but I have had these powers for as long as I could remember. I am able to divine or see into things that other people would have to learn about first to understand it. I can set fires with my mind. I am able to go from place to place without walking or running there. Lastly, I can move things with my mind. I have had weird incidents start around seven years old. I think it was finally having enough of school bullies that triggered it. When I was that age, I was a lot shorter than most of the boys. I also had very light blond hair. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I was called "midget Towhead". It did not help I had, and still have, a bit of a temper, so my reactions did not stop them. One time they were trying to chase me through the halls to beat me up, I hid, but then found myself staring at their backs, behind them, watching as they wondered where I went. That's transmutation… or, as the Hawthorn Academy called it, salire per spatium.

Telekinesis, moving things with my mind, I discovered on accident. I was ten and wanted to cut my birthday cake. My dad insisted he do it, so I tried to get the knife out of his hand, and before I could blink the knife was not in either of our hands – it had flung and lodged itself up on the cupboard door. It went right through. My parents did not know what to make of it, nor could I.

Divination is something I have used on and off throughout my life, even my career. If a contract seemed fishy, I didn't sign it. For me, it is like an inner knowing of things without actually experiencing them firsthand. I can even remember using it to cheat on tests I either didn't care to study for, or were really hard. It was my best friend in middle school. One kid thought I was having a seizure.

"It wasn't a seizure," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Are you sure? Your eyes were rolling in the back of your head!" he told me. I got along with him. His name was Ethan.

I tried denying it, but what he said next, spooked me a bit: "you were making this deep sound with your voice like you were drugged out." It was a guttural "ugghhhhuuughhhhughhhh" he imitated right after saying this.

Riiiiiiiinnnng!

"Aw shit, I gotta get to class," I said, the perfect excuse to cut the conversation short. "Talk later!"

"John, you were still writing!" I heard him say as I inched away from him, binder for my next class clutched to my chest.

"Nah, man, don't sweat it!" I exclaimed, now just feet away from him, "look, if I am late again, Mr. Guder is gonna write me up for detention!"

When I was 14, I took chemistry because there were no other science classes available, and I was required to take one. I was a freshman in high school, and one of the guys who had tormented me for years was sitting next to a girl I found cute. By this point, I was experiencing a growth spurt and my hair was not so light anymore. I looked a bit more normal, so the bullying stopped a little bit. This fucker, however, would constantly torment me or call me names. If it wasn't that, it was him being passive aggressive. My lab partner was Ethan, and we were doing some experiment. We each had a beaker over a burner with the substances we were trying to mix together, but I looked over at his set. I imagined the burner going on, and before I knew it, half the class screamed as the experiment blew up in his face. I forget what exactly he mixed together, but he was done after. Well, not done. More like hospitalized for 2 months. He could never breathe the same after that. His face was badly burned. The girl I had a crush on was not as hurt by the burner going off, but she was traumatized. So yeah, I have pyrokinesis.

Within the next year after this incident, I looked for a way to seriously become more normal. This included a way to suppress what was inside me, my powers and all. I took up boxing after I was sent to the principal's office for getting into a fight with someone else who picked on me. It was my dad's suggestion, and once I began to train more and more, I felt a change within. Girls noticed me more, I had my first girlfriend, but we split after 5 months strong. Probably wasn't so strong, though, looking back. Otherwise she would still be with me. I never was ugly, but boxing boosted my confidence tenfold. I wasn't picked on at all by the time I was a junior in high school. In fact, all I did was school, homework, the occasional hookup or party, and of course, training. That was also when I started state and regional matches. I won most of them… my secret? Pretending the opponent was someone who tormented me. I would work myself into a bit of a frenzy before every match. I needed to feel the fighter in me… the fire in my veins. It was a way to control myself from accidentally setting him on fire, that's for sure.

I was one of the youngest boxers in my region. This was not a high school sport, like football or track. A lot of my training was done outside in a boxing club just down the street from my house. When I was 18 years old, I got my first contract offer, which I rejected. The manager offering it sounded like bad news. I was correct. Remember the divination skill I have that I mentioned? He was nabbed three months later for cheating some athletes out of millions of dollars. Dodged a bullet there. I was offered my next contract, which was beyond anything I could have imagined – ten years, $500,000 payout to start, more as I won big matches. It was ridiculous. I was 18, about to become a sensation in the boxing world. My father got a lawyer involved to see if this was the right choice for me to make. I signed it, my manager signed it, and my first fight was in Las Vegas. I was 182lbs at the start, so I was junior heavyweight. I won that first match, then again it wasn't like I was fighting Alvarez or Mayweather. I can remember girls coming up to me after the match on the way to the locker room, also reporters from various magazines trying to get a word from me as the new champion.

Time progressed – I got richer, and I had anything I could possibly want or ask for. Don't get me started on women. That was my favorite part about being famous; having more than enough women willing to suck your cock or bend over on all fours for you. I did not even have to ask or bribe like some guys with money do. They genuinely thought I was attractive. That, or the fact I am virile. I don't know.

That stopped, however. I was 23, and it was a match in my home state, Texas. Houston to be exact. I had won, and like usual, I had a bunch of girls fawning over me, hoping to get banged that night by me. Reporters for sports magazines would come to me, and I just was not in the mood that night. However, when I was sitting down, having some water given to me, this girl came up to me. She was not very attractive, but I tried to be nice anyways. She had mousey brown hair, was a little heavy set, wearing a sweater, jeans and pair of sneakers. She wore round glasses, and looked at me shyly.

"Uh… h-hey… J-John Vanderbilt?" she asked me.

I looked up at her and stifled a grimace with a smile: "yeah?"

"C-Can I have your autograph?" she said, extending out a Sharpie and a Sports Illustrated issue with me on the cover.

"Uh, sure…" I just wanted it over with, but as I was signing, she said something that near repulsed me. Remember, she is not that attractive to me.

"I swear, I'm not like the other girls…I…I don't want to… go to your hotel…" she stammered.

"I know you're not, because you wouldn't be," I remarked, giving back her Sharpie and magazine.

I did not expect for that to make the girl cry hard enough to send her friend over to me. I did not firsthand see her crying, but I saw her friend. She was gorgeous. She was pissed off. She was a looker – red hair, blue eyes, a fair face, a little shorter than me, curvy but slender; just my type. I just took it. She had approached me with this look on her face like 'are you serious, dude?'

"Excuse me, but… were you just an asshole to my friend here?" she asked me.

I didn't say anything, but stood up, looking down at her calmly. I was just kind of showing off, though – my body was and still is pretty ripped. She didn't seem very fazed, save for a subtle glance down away from me.

"I'm asking you a question!" she said forcefully. "Did you act like an asshole to my friend?"

The unattractive, plump girl looked at me from a few feet away. She had stopped crying, and I glanced over at her: "I didn't mean to."

"How could you treat people like that?!" she retorted. "You're not God's gift to women! You're a pompous ass!"

I inhaled sharply, smelling her scent a little bit: "I'm sorry."

"Don't say 'sorry' to me," the redhead said, pulling her friend's arm over so she was closer to us. "Say it to her."

"Hey, John, is everything okay?" That was my bodyguard doing his job, putting one of his thick arms in between me and the two girls. He looked to them and said: "girls, you need to keep it down, you're causing a scene."

"No," I interjected. "They're not. Leave them be."

"We were just leaving," the redhead said. "Come on, Rachel."

"Don't", I commanded calmly. The girl who asked me for an autograph, named Rachel, turned to face me. The redhead rolled her eyes and looked back at me. I felt myself getting a hard-on. "Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your friend's feelings." I got a bit more confident as the redhead fully faced me, arms crossed.

"Rachel," I heard her say, "go get the car. Swing by right in front of the venue. I'll be out in a second."

When she left to get the car, I approached her slowly, like a wolf stalking a rabbit. She tried to back away, but I made eye contact that deterred her.

"What's your name?" I asked.

She was silent for a minute, still not having it: "Lydia."

"Beautiful name, beautiful woman," I flirted with a smile.

"I'm not sleeping with you, okay?" she snided.

"I didn't say one thing about that, did I?"

"No, but I know what you're all about."

"You have no idea, baby doll," I laughed. "How about your number?"

"No, you're crazy."

"Not crazy," I contradicted. "But serious."

She rolled her eyes and finally said: "I have to go."

I did not see Lydia again until I was driving around the streets of Houston to pass the time a few days ago. I was in a rental luxury car – a white Ferrari convertible with the roof down – so I was hard to not notice. I saw vivid red hair on a young woman in the sunlight overhead. I had sunglasses on, and when I beeped the horn at her, she was at full attention. I tipped down my sunglasses so she knew it was me.

"Oh my God," I heard her say to herself.

"Fancy seeing you here, gorgeous," I flirted.

She crossed her arms and looked at me sternly: "what do you want?"

"You tell me," I joked.

"I'm not hopping in bed with you," Lydia answered.

"Why do you assume that?" I giggled, reaching across to open the passenger door on the car. She actually kept walking. She did not bite. I drove slowly to follow her, and she noticed right away.

"Stop following me."

"Not until you get in," I smirked.

"I'll call the cops, I'm serious!" she said slightly louder.

I shook my head: "baby doll, it's going to take a lot for me to stop than a couple cops, okay?"

"Ugh!" she grunted, stopping in her tracks. "Why are you such an asshole?!"

"There you go again," I muttered, shaking my head. "Assuming I'm an asshole. I said I was sorry about your friend."

"I'm not assuming," Lydia sneered, "I'm stating a fact."

"Why don't you let me show you I'm not an asshole?" I winked.

I had a strange idea that was just crazy enough to work. Trash barrels were out on the street for collection, and one of them that she was standing near was uncovered. I risked her getting hurt in the process, but I wanted this beauty in the car with me. I looked at the garbage bag closest to the top, and it caught fire. Lydia looked over and gasped, getting a bit scared and almost running toward the sidewalk on the other side of the street. To prevent her from getting away, I used telekinesis to make her fall back on her ass. I parked on the side of the street, ignoring the fact that the trash barrel was now engulfed in the flames I conjured from my mind, and ran toward Lydia. She was still on the ground, and I reached down to help her up. One hand was holding hers and the other was on her waist. She grunted.

"Don't touch me!"

"What, I'm helping you!" I said emphatically.

"Look, this hurts," she said to me.

"I can see that. Now will you sit in my car?" I offered. "I'll take you to lunch or something… just… please…" I was not one to beg. Ever. "Let me get the chance to know you, and give me the chance to show you who I really am." She agreed, but not before having to call the fire department to put the fire I set out.

After that fateful day, Lydia and I grew closer, though it was far from easy. She was stubborn, and all I wanted to do was show her I had feelings for her. I gave her small gifts, like jewelry, to do just that. We went on dates. I tried my best to treat her like a princess. We did not become an official couple until five months later, and when I told her I loved her, she didn't believe me. In fact, she was suspicious of me for the longest time, thinking I was with other women when she wasn't around. I never once was. When Lydia came into my life, all of that stopped. However, she would get mad at me if I checked out a waitress or said something "flirty" to another female in front of her. Once, Lydia was my date (obviously) to a press afterparty and we were mingling, having some drinks and hors d'oeuvres. By this point, I was with Lydia for about eight months, and she was right next to me when I was introduced to this beautiful blonde with an hourglass dressed in a red gown.

"Ooh," I had purred. "Better be careful. You'll set this room on fire, doll."

Lydia elbowed me and made a face. It was even worse because the other woman smiled at me. That night, on the way back home, she was very silent, and when we unwound, she was still silent. Not saying a single word to me. I had walked into the bedroom and took off my shirt.

"Babe? What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"You're not convincing me."

She darted a look at me like she wanted to strangle me: "John, let me ask you something, and don't fucking lie to me."

I rolled my eyes and looked at her. She was laying back on the bed but sat up to look at me: "what is it about me that makes you want to flirt with other women in front of me?"

My eyes widened: "Why would I lie?"

"Oh please!" She tossed her hands in the air and walked over to me, saying all the while: "you claim you love me, yet you pull this shit all the time! Checking out the waitress when we go out, then tonight with that hussy in red! Right in FRONT of me!"

"I'm a man," I said, trying to calm her down. "It's what we do. Don't be so jealous."

"Jealous?!" she exclaimed, walking past me. I watched her and it looked like she was getting a bag out of her side of the closet. I took a minute to watch her go back to the closet and pull some clothes, hangers included, off the rack.

"What are you doing?" I asked. I felt my heart crack a little bit. I just thought this was one of her outbursts. This happened before. She did not actually leave, because I was able to smooth things over.

"I'm getting out of here. I'm done with this shit, John!" she grunted, packing her bag.

I walked over to her and took her bag away from her: "no, you're staying."

"Want to fucking bet?!" she screeched. "Let it go!"

"No." I was not having her shit. I know I messed up, but this was not necessary. "You're not going anywhere, Lydia."

"Why would you care anyways?! If I left tonight, you would forget all about me, and go hire a couple of hookers to help you along!" Lydia hurt me saying that; she was tearful now. "You don't care. Don't act like you do!" I pulled at the bag, but she fought me. "Let go of me!"

I took a few deep breaths, watched her get dressed, and as she put her shoes on, she zipped the duffle bag she had packed for herself. I knew I fucked up. I had a crazy idea as she was going down the hall and down the main stairway of the foyer. My house was not a mansion, but it showed people I was well-off. I heard her crying as she walked down the stairs. I went into my side table drawer and took out a small jewelry box before using transmutation to discreetly get to the first floor (the living room, to be exact). Before she could open the front door, I used telekinesis to lock it shut. I watched her struggle from where I was in the archway leading to the living room, and she dropped her bag. She struggled some more and grunted, crying. I hated seeing her so upset… but I could not lose her. I loved her too much. I approached Lydia as I watched her slide down against the wall near the door. She was sobbing. It broke my heart to see it.

I crouched down and tried to console her, moving her red hair away from her face: "sh…"

"Don't fucking touch me," I heard her under her breath. "Let me go. Where is the key?"

"I'm not letting you go," I muttered. "Ever."

"I hate you." That hurt, but I had to counter it with the opposite.

"I love you," I told her. "I know I am a bit of a hound, but I have never, ever cheated on you. I won't flirt in front of you again. I didn't know this hurt you so much."

"You're an idiot," Lydia said.

"I have treated you like the princess the entire time we have been together. Meeting you has changed me," I said, trying to keep a sincere tone of voice. "I have given you anything you wanted, haven't I?"

"That doesn't mean anything," she said. I rolled my eyes as she continued to cry on the floor with my arms around her.

"It does," I corrected her. "All the other women before you…" I began, trying to pick my words carefully, "were just easy lays. I did not shower them with gifts like I do with you. I did not ever take any on dates, like I do with you. I never let one sleep in my own bed, like I do with you. I love you Lydia… and honestly?"

Her blue eyes looked up at me, listening to me. I wiped her tears away with my thumb: "what's your point?"

"I want to… continue doing that. Forever," I said.

With that, I took out the small jewelry box from my pocket, and opened it in front of her. She still looked sad, but then a tear came from her eye as she saw the vintage-style halo ruby engagement ring within. She took in a breath and looked at me, shaking her head.

"It's… beautiful," she said with near disbelief.

"Diamonds are so overrated," I joked. "I was going to propose this Christmas, but…" I looked down and then into her eyes, "the time is now, isn't it?"

"Don't you think it's too soon?" she asked me. Again, we were together eight months in total, counting the time together before we became official three months before this night.

"No, never too soon. I want you…" I proceeded. "Will you marry me, Lydia? And will you unpack your bag and come to bed with me?"

It took five minutes of her stubborn arguing before she said yes. She had said: "you're only doing this to smooth me over. I'm not a fool."

"Yes, you are," I giggled. "A fool… in love with me… enough to be jealous when my eyes wander."

She playfully hit me before I put the ring on her finger. She accepted. We married that summer – it was 2008. When the press got word of my engagement to Lydia, everyone knew my business. I could not even take a vacation without someone recognizing me or Lydia. Some girls that recognized me were bitches, but I paid them no mind. Or I countered it with wit. The wedding was in July, and life began to look up for the both of us. By the end of the year, we learned that we were expecting a child. My divination and senses picked up a change in Lydia within a week of us being married. We had a lot of sex, but now that we were married, I did not need to cum on her tits anymore. In April 2009, our daughter, Cecilia, was born. She looked more like her mother in the face but had my blond hair. Having a daughter, I know now why some men are so protective over them. I knew I had to protect my little girl, and be there for her.

Sometimes Lydia and Cecilia, a baby, would come along if I needed to fight a match in another state. She never minded taking care of the baby in the hotel while I had to be out. She would watch me on TV. At least she was supportive. Life was great until 2012. Shit hit the fan really hard. I killed an opponent in the ring. This is what really happened, if you did read about this in the press. The press got it all wrong. They took footage from a face-off from before the match and over-sensationalized it to make people think me and Brandon Campos (the one I killed) had a massive rivalry. In reality, I did not know the guy, but I did have an idea, from my own impressions, he was not as seasoned to be fighting with someone like me. I was 27, Brandon was where I was a few years before. Agree with me or not, I think it was an error on their part. I heard about the story of Ray Mancini killing Kim Duk-Koo in the ring – Mancini didn't serve time, but I did.

I was in my usual light frenzy before the fight, and I dealt his surprisingly hard blows back to him to keep things interesting, like usual. Eventually, I punched him so hard, twice in fact, that when he was rushed to the hospital, they found his nose bridge backed up into his skull. You know how sometimes, people die from a palm strike to the nose? Well, my punch ended up having the same effect. Brandon also had a severe head injury because of me. He was in a coma, on life support for a week before his family pulled the plug on him. The bastards pressed charges on me, and I was jailed, set for a trial. I plead not guilty, because I had no intent to kill him. I had a very good lawyer, too. That did not do much. Aggravating circumstances, such as the media swaying public opinion (including those in the jury), the fact I punched Brandon twice when the real damage was done rather than stopping, and the fact my fists were considered "deadly weapons" due to my training, I got 2 to 15 years in the Texas State Penitentiary in Huntsville under one count of manslaughter.

Of course, the press got involved. I just didn't want to entertain them. My life was over… at that point, at least. Being sentenced made me lose hope for everything – I lost Lydia, I lost Cecilia, I lost my assets and everything I had. It all went to her. She filed for divorce shortly after the verdict. I remember being so heartbroken and angry that she would leave me like this. I can somewhat understand why – no woman would want to be associated with a convict, and likely she would cheat on me anyways while I served my sentence. She came to visit me two months into my sentence, and at first, I was reluctant to talk to her. However, Cecilia was my flesh and blood. I wanted to know about her. There was a glass divider and a wall between us, and phones on either side we could speak through. I picked up mine and slowly put it to my ear.

"How could you?" Those were my first words.

"John, I…"

"You what?!" I hissed. "I love you, I give you the world, and you just…snatch it from my hands like this?"

"You would have lost everything, anyways, don't forget," Lydia corrected me, keeping calm. "You're behind bars." There was a silence. "Look, I already signed the forms issued to you for divorce. You just need to sign them."

"I'm not doing it," I relucted. "I may even serve 3 to 5 years on good behavior."

"You're insane!" she exclaimed. "You killed a man! It's no wonder, you were always purposely making yourself angry before fights! What the hell did you think would happen?"

"I would never kill anyone!" I said back. "You know me. You, me and Cecilia will be a family again when I get out of here! You'll see! I can see it!"

"She's going to be an adult by the time you get out," Lydia said. "I'm sorry, but I am done. I'm not waiting, wasting my time for you to come out of here when I could be potentially be seeing someone else. A father, a man more suited to be a father to our daughter. You're not going to be there."

I wanted to set her on fire through the glass window that separated us. I mustered up as much calmness as I could, suppressing tears from how genuinely hurt I felt: "how is she?"

"Cecilia?"

"Who else?" I asked coldly.

"She is doing very well. She is with my mom right now," she said.

"All I need to know."

I pursed my lips and hung up the phone on my end, standing up and going toward the guards that were witnessing the exchange. I could almost see in my mind's eye that Lydia started to cry in the room behind me as I was escorted down the hall to my cell.

I served three years. I was correct when speaking to my ex-wife about serving a shorter sentence, but it was not due to good behavior. Those three years, I was tormented by these twins, Axel and Hunter Baxter. They were both in serving time for something really bad. They both had long criminal records to each of their names. They were identical twins. I would have to beat the shit out of them several times, and the guards did not care because they knew these guys were bad news. One time, they tried to ass-rape me. I bashed one of their heads against a wall during that, since it was in the showers. I need a shower thinking about that… it took care of him, though. The other twin didn't dare continue with me. His brother had a concussion.

It did not stop them. The fateful day that changed my life forever came about three years into my sentence, the year was 2015. I was just minding my business in the mess hall, having lunch. They upturned my tray onto my uniform. I was so pissed. Out of nowhere, they start attacking me, bringing me up onto the table where my food was until I got off and out of their grip. The other inmates were watching us, and I even wondered where the guards were to intervene. I was cornered against the wall within a few seconds, and without even thinking about it, I sent one flying and set the other twin on fire with my mind. I could still smell his flesh burning off his bones. I still to this day do not know for a fact if he survived; I think he did. All I remember in that moment, was being escorted back to my cell and questioned about what happened. I told them they tried to attack me. Also, that they could not find a source for the fire that set one of the twins ablaze. Obviously.

The next week was a haze. I don't remember much. I do remember one of the guards came to me and opened the shutter on my cell. I went closer to see what it was about.

"You have a visitor, Vanderbilt," I heard.

"Who?"

I found out who – Ariel Augustus. Never met him before until this day he visited. I don't know what could have prompted him, but he seemed so… I don't know, authoritative. He was a short Hispanic man with a black cloak and a black Panama-styled hat. I felt a bit uneasy at first, but he was seated on the other side of the glass window. I was curious, so I sat down and picked up the phone on my end.

"Hi," I said. "Can I help you?"

"I probably can," the man said with a bit of an accent. "I am Ariel Augustus."

"Are you with the feds? Gonna get me out?" I asked.

"No, I am not with law enforcement. I saw the surveillance footage of you and those two other inmates. I am quite impressed."

"What? Impressed?" My breathing got a bit heavy. This guy knows I have powers.

"There is nothing to be frightened about, I can assure you," Ariel said, trying to calm me down. "I'm a warlock, and I think you are one as well, John."

It made sense to me now. This guy was a warlock, probably with the same powers as me, and saw the footage that the CCTV surveillance caught when I was defending myself. I shook my head.

"You can't be serious. I was a professional boxer, I'm not a warlock," I challenged.

"You are indeed. Only a warlock has powers like what I saw in that footage," Ariel said. "You have had them your whole life, haven't you?"

I blurted: "I…I was defending myself. Is the one I burned dead?"

"It doesn't matter. You had an impulse that triggered your powers. It triggered you to act, John," he told me. "Your life is about to begin. You're coming with me. Today."

I could not believe my ears. This man, a self-proclaimed warlock, was trying to get me out of prison. To demonstrate his powers, he unlocked and opened the door that separated the wall and glass windows between us. Telekinesis, just like me. I looked around to quickly glance at the security cameras spying on us, and I concentrated to the point where they broke or exploded, either or, and fell off their settings. This was a smart move on my part. The authorities have not found me to this day for escaping, just because I broke the security cameras. I'm far from being on a "Most Wanted" list, though. A guard intervened when I got up and went for the door.

"Hey, no, you're not going anywhere, Vanderbilt!"

THUD!

I instinctively raised my hand and sent the guard backwards toward the wall, holding him there and speaking to him: "oh, I am… I am going places. Out of this damn dump!"

Ariel walked into the side of the room where I was: "John, put him down. That's enough."

"He's going to know I left," I said. "Then I'll have bigger fish to fry."

He took out this capsule of gray powder and crushed it on his palm, looking at the guard. I released my telekinetic grip on him, and he landed to his feet. Before he could phone someone else on the walkie, Ariel walked up to him and blew it right in his face. I watched the guard become pretty much like a zombie, compliant to Ariel's will as he chanted some ju-ju.

"Silentio animo bitio,

Inclination voluntatis meae!"

There was a silence, and the guard obeyed every order: "forget that John Vanderbilt was ever an inmate here, forget he was here for any reason. You are to refrain from speaking to the other guards about this. Do you understand?"

"Yes." The guard was so compliant it scared me, but we left the room, and we had to repeat the process on some other guards, but I was out. I was a free man!

There was a car waiting outside, and I made sure to telekinetically destroy any security cameras in our direction outside as well. We were taken off, and to this odd building. When I got out with Ariel, I followed him. It looked like an iron maze of sorts. I asked some questions.

"Is this underground?"

"Yes, but it was not always like this," Ariel said. "There was a nice building here once. It had giant wooden beams and giant glass windows that let you see forever. Problem was, we could see out, but others could see in. When Miss Cordelia went on her publicity tour and outed us to the world in 2014, some locals decided they did not want our kind here."

"Miss Cordelia?" I asked. "Who is that?"

"Our Supreme." He sounded very condescending. "The locals had a Molotov cocktail party and burnt everything down save for a sculpture from the garden. We went underground again… literally."

"Ariel? Is it possible I can ever see my daughter again?"

"Not likely in the near future. You have a home with us."

When we went down into the compound, it was quite dim but had a large fire pit in the main foyer. There were a few men in suits waiting for us, and there were a bunch of other younger men in what looked to be school uniforms there. I was still in my prison jumpsuit, bright orange, sticking out like a sore thumb like I had as a young child. I was introduced to the other members of the Warlock Council – Ariel was the Chancellor, and there was John Henry-Moore, Baldwin Pennypacker, and Behold Chablis. Then, Ariel announced me. A few warlocks recognized me.

"Oh my God! You're John Vanderbilt! How the hell did you get out of prison?" one of them asked.

"I've been a fan for years! Sign my briefcase later on!"

"Silence!" Ariel said. "John Vanderbilt is here and some of you may know him as a boxer, but he is a warlock. One of us. Like many of you, he feels like he may not belong here, or if this is the right place for him, but let us all make him feel welcome and remind him this is his true home… with us."

Then proceeded a bunch of introductions and handshakes, pats to my shoulder. I felt alright being there. It was better than prison. The enclosed space of the school, being underground, sort of reminded me of prison but it was so much better than prison. I felt finally accepted for me, being gifted like this. My first week, I had trouble being on time to lessons, but I went down to where Behold was teaching a group how to turn one type of mass into another kind of mass. Specifically, it was changing a pile of crystals into an iron sphere. I went in, hearing the chanting, hearing Behold encouraging them with flamboyant gestures. He was gay, I could tell. He saw me, and telekinetically whipped the book I needed at me, so it hit me in the chest.

"Vanderbilt! If you ever expect to rise beyond Level One, you must be on time!" he snapped. "If punctuality is too taxing for you, join the Magic Castle and do card tricks with Neil Patrick Harris!"

"No thank you, I'm good," I said with a chuckle.

"Now, let's see what you've got…" Behold said. "Let's see if you have real power or are just punching the wall all day."

I rolled my eyes and heard the other warlocks laughing. I opened the book, looking at the one next to me to see what page the chant was on. I joined in and began to chant with the rest of them "Ex forma mutata, facti sunt figura novi…"

"Your power is molecular, woven into your DNA. See every atom, rearrange them, transform them!" Behold said, his voice booming with encouragement.

I kept chanting, and the spell was successful with our efforts. Behold clapped and give us all praises. He kept walking around, and I held the ball to see if it was real. It was a pure iron sphere. I was not alone for long at Hawthorn – a British guy named Elijah joined us a week later. He became my roommate, I helped him unpack, and I would soon learn this guy was ridiculously powerful. The Warlock Council even claimed he had powers that are more common in witches, our female counterparts. The one thing I cannot get out of my head about him was the familiarity I had when meeting him. Maybe I knew him in another life, or maybe he was a member of the press in passing but I doubt it. That, and his intense ice blue eyes. Sometimes, I felt like he was stabbing into my soul with them.

Elijah was not bad. He kept to himself, though I laughed because he told me he was 30 and never been laid. He didn't find me funny, though. After 2 months at the school, he and I underwent trials to become the Alpha, since we both were the most powerful warlocks there in such a short time. I was able to do two of the trials, Scrying (divination), as well as salire per spatium as I said, but this time, I fucked up. I died. The knife Baldwin used via telekinesis to motivate me went into my chest and I didn't move fast enough. Guess who brought me back? Elijah.

Elijah not only brought me back and healed over the wound like it never happened, but he did all three tests flawlessly. No effort. He could do everything – divination, transmutation, and stricidium, or changing the weather. This guy made it snow during hottest month of the year in California. Fucking August, he made it snow. Of course, he nearly injured Baldwin by freezing him to death, but Elijah… he was practically a god. From what I know of the Seven Wonders being in this mystical world for so long, Elijah possessed most of the skills plus what it took to be Alpha… and Alpha he became. He chose me to go with him to New Orleans with the Warlock Council, and there, he met this girl, got married within a few days because apparently, she resembled the one in his dream. Melanie was her name. She was a pretty new student Witch with Miss Robicheaux's Academy. Meanwhile, I got the best blowjob in my life. Thanks, Madison.

Needless to say, Elijah decided to leave his duties as Alpha and leave Hawthorn, so I sent for his things to be brought back to him. I was promoted to a Level 3 warlock, and became part of the Council. It's been four years since I saw or spoke to Elijah. I got a disturbing letter in our mail which I read, and it was from him. He was not in the best shape, let's just say. John-Henry and I saw the letter, and agreed to never speak of him ever again but… he was my friend. I feel for Melanie, his wife – he literally killed their baby boy thinking it was Satan or something. The letter was delusional, like a psycho wrote it. Toward the end, certain sentences were crossed out, written over… it was a mess. I burnt the letter. I don't have it anymore. I can still remember every word.

It makes me wonder if I should leave Hawthorn to find out what happened to him, maybe check on Melanie to see if she has been okay since that happened. Lastly, and most important, I would love to visit my daughter, Cecilia. She is six now, I think. I want to be a father to her… the best I can be.