Speak Of The Devil
They Are Found
Summary: Shadows from a long forgotten past come back to haunt Severus, but can they be trusted? Are they in the pay of the Dark Lord or the Aurors? Or do they have their own separate hidden agendas?…
Authors Note: Hey. Me again I'm afraid, here with a new story, my best one so far I feel, a lot more descriptive, a lot more grown up I feel. I was considering deleting my previous stories as I feel they are far too childish for me anymore and I have been suffering writers block on them for far too long and hoped to just put them out of their misery, but when I went to get rid of them I found myself completely unable to do so, I guess they still mean far too much to me for me to bring myself to delete them, so for now, Forever and Remember Me are staying. Sorry to those who liked those stories, but I'm afraid they will most likely be on hiatus permanently now…
Warning: This story includes strong language, drug abuse, violence, dubious implications and lots of other baaaaaad stuff. Read at your own risk. Mwaha.
Disclaimer: All canon characters belong to JK Rowling, anything you don't recognise is all mine.
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The Manticore let out another ear-splitting roar and Miranda was hurled once again to the floor. It stomped its hooves on the hard ground and charged at her, teeth bared in a terrifying snarl. She rolled to one side, just managing to get out of the way before it charged past her and hurtled into the side of a nearby tree.
She scrambled to her feet and turned to face it as it picked itself up and turned to come back for another go.
"All right ya bastard, come an' git meh!" she cried, her voice a gravely, harsh tone. Pulling a length of rope out of thin air and quickly fastening a loop at one end, "Ah've taken down fiercer beasts than you an' I aint about ta quit yet!"
"Are you quite finished?" drawled a heavily accented voice from behind her. Gustav, her short-time accomplice, long-time buyer was hovering a few feet above her on his new Firebolt, watching her with a mixed expression of mild disinterest and derision.
The Russian always had been a cocky bastard…
"If ya want this sale Gustav, yas can either git orf ya arse an' help meh, or ya can bloody well wait!" the Manticore charged once again, and with a swift motion Miranda swung the rope over the beasts head and flipped onto the creatures back. She was now using the rope as if it were a horses bridle and she was riding in the Grand National.
The Manticore roared again and swung its head from side to side, desperately trying to shake itself free. It sped up and bucked its hind legs, trying to unseat her. But Miranda had learnt to break rodeo Hippogriffs when she was nineteen and now at thirty-three, she wasn't the kind of person to be unseated by a young and inexperienced beast like the one she currently riding. No, that wasn't her style.
A pitying laugh came from above her as she pulled the rope tight, dodging the branches of the clump of trees the Manticore had now charged into, slamming itself into them one by one.
"I would rather not my dear, that's your job, I would hate to intrude on the master at work…"
Miranda snarled, and with one final movement she pulled the tranquiliser gun out of her belt and shot off three darts into the animals neck. The Manticore swayed a little, unaware of exactly what had happened, but with a low moan it keeled over to one side, almost crushing Miranda's leg between itself and the ground.
Miranda hopped off of the beast and used the rest of the rope to tie its legs firmly together; she then let out an ear piercing whistle and the Pegasus's that pulled the huge metal cage behind them trotted slowly into view along the dirt path that ran through the trees.
Once the Manticore was safely caged up and sleeping soundly she turned back to Gustav, a satisfied smirk across her thin lips.
"Pay up," she said shortly.
Gustav sighed and pulled a small pouch of jingling coins out of the pocket of his robes and handed it out to her. She looked at it scornfully, her eyes narrowed and one eyebrow raised.
"That's it? Ah'm bustin' a gut ta git tha' bastard into tha' cage an' tha's all ya givin' me? Bollocks Gustav, give us tha rest."
"I pay what is due Miss Snape, that it what is due." He smiled and shook the pouch, the coins jingled weakly.
"PAY UP GUSTAV, LESS YOU WANTS TA BE THA ONE IN THA CAGE FOR ONCE!" she bellowed, she was used to getting her own way, she always got her own way, if people didn't give her what she wanted when she asked nicely for it, she got nasty, and it didn't stop at being able to shout louder than any Sonorus spell, it went much, much further…
Gustav blinked a few times then reluctantly reached back into his pocket and pulled out a larger bag, the coins making a much stronger jangling noise.
"You break my heart Miss Snape, you break my heart-"
"I'll break ya fricken nose in a minute if ya don' hand over the goddamn money!"
"Alright, alright!" he shoved the purse roughly into her hand, "You are worse than your brother do you know that?"
That was his mistake, a dramatic change fell over Miranda's harsh features, the expression of slight irritation of not being paid slipped away into the mask of pure and utter hatred and loathing.
In one swift movement she had Gustav by the throat, shoved roughly up against a tree, her mouth set in a fierce snarl trademark of the very beast she had just taken down, and for the first time since she had left England and adopted her new occupation as a bounty hunter, her accent slipped.
"Don't you dare compare me to that murdering son of a bitch you worthless piece of communist scum," her eyes bore into him like a pneumatic drill and the murderous glint that they gave when she glared was enough to make Gustav almost collapse out of fear, "if you ever say anything like that again I will rip your fucking balls off do you understand me!"
Gustav gulped, Miranda was an imposing figure when she in a good mood, this was far, far worse. Her black hair fell down her back in a tight braid; she had a six-inch hunting knife attached to her left arm with a leather strap, another tucked into her belt along with her tranquilizer gun and a smaller one strapped to her thigh. Her denim shorts were torn around the edges, courtesy of extensive wear while out capturing various creatures to sell to Gustav. One of the straps on her black vest top was hanging off of one shoulder and her combat boots kicked up dust and dirt as she shifted on the spot.
The Russian gasped for breath and looked back into her blazing, ebony black eyes, "I-I understand," Miranda let go of him, he hit the ground with a thud and scrambled up again, quick to get as far away from her as possible. He stood there, wringing his hands and twitching nervously, "Well…um…I'll just be going then…" he turned and ran towards the cage and the winged horses, he grabbed the reins and leapt up onto the drivers seat, "Good day Miss Snape" he called as he flicked the reins, the Pegasus's brayed and jolted into the air, their feathers wings beating fast and soon Gustav and his quarry were out of sight.
Miranda frowned and pulled a pack of camel cigarettes and a silver lighter out of the pocket of her shorts. She lit up one of them and leaned against the tree behind her, weighing the bag of gold absentmindedly in her hand.
So, this was what her life had amounted to, poaching rare and valuable animals for their magical properties and selling them to a fat Russian with an inferiority complex.
She closed her eyes and sighed, making money and taking out her frustration on dangerous animals had always seemed like the perfect job for her, but after seventeen years she wondered if it was really all worth it…
There was a crunching sound behind her, the sound of someone slowly making their way through the forest towards her.
She tossed her head and looked around the side of the tree into the dark, "Hello?" she called, stepping over a root and slowly making her way around the tree trunk, "Gustav is tha' you?" she suspected it was that stupid pillock again, back to try and freak her out after she scared him shitless before.
But the figure that emerged from darkness was not Gustav, nor did they resemble the obese Russian smuggler in any way, what Miranda now saw before her terrified her more than any creature she had ever come across in her entire life.
"Mother fu-"
Red light shot from the darkness and hit her squarely in the chest, the last thing she remembered before the rest of her memories went blank, was the sight of a raised wand, and the hideous figure that held it…
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"Ladies and Gentlemen! Who will be the next to fight our reining champion Roman Bartell?"
The shout echoed through the vast underground passage, the sewers stretched out under the entire city. Endless tunnels under the streets and houses; they were the perfect lair for the outcasts of the civilised world. Vampires, Werewolves, half-breeds, dark wizards and muggles mingled together in the darkness, fulfilling their twisted desires, plotting, gathering followers, gaining enemies, living their lives the way they wanted, the way society had forbidden them to.
But the most horrifying sport these creatures of the night had created was one of the most popular forms of midnight entertainment.
Cage-fighting.
It was-in the terms of the very few who had entered the Dark Realm and made it out alive- simply an excuse to beat each other to a bleeding, groaning pulp on the floor.
There were no rules, only those dictated by the spectators. Beat the living crap out of your opponent. Or die.
The champion in question sat slumped among the hard metal seats surrounding the cage, it was common place for many of the seats to be picked up and hurled into the cage if the spectators did not like the way the fight was going or the pace began to slow. That was one of the mantras fighters had to repeat to themselves if they wanted to escape the cage alive: Don't stop. Don't slow down.
Because in the world of Cage-fighting, your worst enemy was not you opponent. It was the audience.
A roar was let up from the other side of the cavernous passage, a werewolf built like a pro-wrestler had rose to his feet and was making his way through the cheering crowd to the entrance of the wire metal cage. His yellow eyes glowed in the light cast from the flickering neon lights hanging from the ceiling; he cracked his knuckles and snarled, his fangs glistening.
"Well then? Are we fighting or not? You're not scared are you?" he bellowed across the passage, a jeering glint in his unnatural eyes.
Roman only smirked, and slowly stood, his black cape swirling around his feet in the foul breeze that blew down from the surface world through the sewage passageways.
Compared to his huge opponent, Roman seemed- to the untrained eye- every bit the underdog. His black shirt was tight, revealing an almost emaciated figure, his cloak was ragged at the hem and the sleeves seemed to have been ripped off, his shirt was short sleeved so revealed an impressive collection of gang tattoos and the words "LIFE" and "BURN" across his knuckles. He had the sort of face which had echos that suggested he used to be handsome, high cheekbones and flawless skin, but all that remained now were pointed features and pallid complexion, his waist-length pitch black hair framed his pale face, his left eye was red-rimmed and sharp, his right was concealed by an eye-patch.
He stood among his dedicated band of supporters, it was clear that his opponent was new to the Dark Realm and its much praised and worshipped sport, only a fool would underestimate Roman Bartell.
"He looks like a bloody crack addict…" muttered one spectator to another as Roman made his way slowly towards the entrance to the cage.
"Shut up! You don't want him to hear you imbecile…" Roman was used to those sort of comments when he stepped up to fight, it pleased him to see the looks on their faces when he revealed to them how wrong they were in underestimating his true power.
The cage door slammed shut behind him, and a security troll chained and bolted it behind him. There was no entertainment to be found if the participators decided to make a break for it half way through…
This did not worry Roman in the slightest, and seemingly not his opponent either; in fact he seemed rather confident in his apparent clear victory already. He turned to his side of the crowed and called up to one of his accomplices.
"Just give me five minutes, we'll be drinking Merlot at the bar in no time." He cackled and cracked his knuckles once more, grinning menacingly at Roman.
Roman simply shook his head and smiled, how very wrong the poor bastard was.
The werewolf made the first move, he sprung forward at the unsuspecting champion and threw him off his feet and back against the chain link side of the cage, Roman slumped down on the floor and his head flopped down against his chest, the werewolf roared in triumph and grabbed hold of the front of Roman's shirt, spinning his round and hurling him across the cage and into the steel door frame. He raised his hands up to the audience, his side-largely filled with werewolves and muggles- erupted into cheers and applause, Roman's side, filled with vampires and dark wizards, simply sat in silence, some with their arms crossed, many with knowing smirks on their lips.
"Come on." Demanded the werewolf as he turned back to Roman, "Aren't you even going to try-" there was a flurry of movement and in the split second it took for the werewolf to register what was about to happen, he was now flat on his back on the hard stone surface of the cage floor, having had his shin bones crushed and his legs completely kicked out from underneath him.
"What the-?" his yellow eyes were wide with shock, focussed on the form of Roman who was kneeling down beside the fallen creature.
Roman's lips curled in a smile, "Surprise." His arm flew out and took hold of the wolf by the throat and raised him up to eye level, the creature's legs hanging limply beneath him, his eyes flashing with frenzied panic.
"How-!"
Roman leaned in until their nose were almost touching, "Magic." He whispered, and with a flick of his wrist, the werewolf was sent flying across the cage and almost through the metal wall, the helpless creature was slumped, unmoving in a large dent where his body had almost passed through the solid metal side of the cage.
His head lifted slowly to look up in shock at the newly transformed figure of Roman, standing there in his tight t-shirt and black trousers, now in the place of his battered cloak, a pair of leathery, bat-like wings protruded from his shoulder blades, fanning out until the wingspan reached almost ten feet. He sneered, and his sharp fangs glinted, his single working eye glowed red.
But despite this, the werewolf simply didn't get the message.
"Shit! Hell no am I gonna lose to a bat!" he cried as he heaved himself up on the one leg that caused him the least pain, there was a cry of anger and hostility from the vampires in the crowed, now shifting restlessly, wanting to react and hurl abuse and vicious insults and various other objects at the offending wolf. But they knew better, they knew Roman would the wolf exactly what was due.
Roman shook his head once more, approaching the werewolf with the grace of a cat stalking it prey, "You just don't seem to understand." He muttered darkly, the werewolf swiped a clawed paw at him but he batted it away effortlessly and smashed his fist into the foolish wolf's chest.
It tumbled backwards clutching its ribcage and howling in pain, Roman approached it for the final time, but before he pull the pistol from his belt the wolf turned his head to the crowd and bellowed to his accomplice, "Last resort! Kaine!"
The werewolf named Kaine-who never lost a match while he had been a fighter and was a close relative of Marcus, the werewolf who was fighting currently- stood up in a flash of unnatural speed, his metal chair was lifted from the ground and hurled with all his strength at the standing form of Roman, it spun in the air and broke through the chain link of the side of the cage, aimed directly at Roman's head.
But things don't always go according to plan. No matter how much it seems to be going your way.
Romans reactions were as fast as lightening and he swerved on the spot, the hand that had been reaching for the pistol in his belt swung round and plucked the metal chair out of the air, pulling it back and over his shoulder, his other hand moved up to grasp it also and with a slicing movement he swung the heavy metal seat through the air and down onto the hunched werewolf's head.
There was a loud, heavy thud as the chair connected with his skull and a cry of anguish was sent up from the werewolf half of the crowd as a wave of blood and gore was sent flying into the audience.
But Roman wasn't finished, with another swift movement he shifted his body and drew the pistol from his belt with his right hand that had let go of the chair when it had impacted on the werewolf's skull, the smooth metal of the pistol seemed to meld into his hand as if it were an extension of his body, and before many had time to register the impact of the chair upon his werewolf opponent, he had fired two rounds into the werewolf's accomplice, Kaine.
Kaine slumped back against the wall and lay still, he had been dead as soon as the second round had hit him, dead between the eyes.
As the chaos began to ensue, the werewolf letting out howls of anger and launching themselves across the passage towards the vampire section of the stands, acrid, billowing smoke rolled in through the passageways and into the cavernous hall. The figure of Roman stood silently in the centre of the cage, the bent and bloodied chair in his left hand, the pistol, still pointed out into the crowd, his head lowered and his eyes closed, his wings now retracted back into his shoulders and his cloak now hanging motionless around him.
"Life Burns." He whispered. And deep in the shadows, a pale creature with glowing eyes, twisted it lips into a smile. Perfect.
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Chantelle sat by the open window, peering out at the night sky, but not really seeing a thing. She leaned her elbow against the windowsill and rested her cheek upon her hand and sighed, her tired eyes blinking back sleep and trying to force herself to remain awake. She was startled suddenly at the sound of footsteps approaching her from behind, she turned, her long raven hair falling over her shoulders and her sharp dark eyes straining to make out the figure of the man approaching her.
She relaxed at the sight of Alexander and stood up, smoothing the creases in her exquisite, red wine-coloured velvet robes, a sad smile taking residence upon her lips.
"Leaving?" she said quietly, her soft voice echoing through the hall of the large manor house.
"You didn't stay up all this time did you silly girl?" he replied in a soft American accent, her husband shook his head and smiled at her, putting down his bags and putting his arms around her delicate waist.
"I didn't want you to leave without saying goodbye…" she said, "You're away so often we hardly even get any time together anymore…"
"Don't say that." He reassured her, placing his hands on her shoulders, "Chantelle… Are you happy here, with me?" he asked sincerely, a troubled look on his face.
'Of course!" she exclaimed, a little too quickly. She sighed and shook her head, "I guess I'm just a little lonely here, in this huge house with no-one to talk to while you're away, it's depressing when you're here with no-one but the blasted paintings…"
Alexander let out a small laugh, "Don't worry, I'll only be in Europe for a few weeks, then Is wear I'll make it up to you, alright?" he raised his eyebrows and smiled the devilish smile that Chantelle never ceased to love.
"Okay." She said quietly with another smile. He turned and picked up his bags, blowing her a kiss from the doorway then disappearing out into the night and approaching the car that was to take him to the airport.
Chantelle turned away from the door and instead looked out of the window once more and up at the Beverly Hills night sky, the stars shinning bright as ever in the clear and cloudless night. She sat there for at least another ten minutes, before tearing her eyes away from the sky and suddenly caught a glimpse of her reflection in the clear glass of the window.
She sighed and brushed a strand of her silky black hair from her eyes, at one point she had considered herself lucky, she had managed to escape many of the less attractive family traits associated with her parents and her siblings, her skin had a soft, healthy, peachy glow to it, her eyes were almond shaped and her nose and lips were practically perfect. But still, the jet black eyes and hair, she had not escaped, Alexander had once nicknamed her Black Beauty and described her as "A Dark Horse" she had been puzzled at his comparison of her to a horse at the time and had been slightly unsure how to react, but Alex had only laughed and they had spent the rest of the day giggling about it. He never called her that anymore.
In fact, he never said much to her anymore, they had slowly grown apart over the years, and although she knew full well it was largely her fault, she couldn't help feeling angry at the way things had turned out in the end.
Yes, once she had considered herself to be lucky, good looks, a handsome and rich husband, and a huge house in a perfect neighbourhood… But in the end, was she happy? Of course not, now, when seemed to have everything a girl could dream of, the price she had had to pay to get it seemed far too much, and now, when her husband was gone and the house was an empty shell, she found herself longing to have her family back…
A crash from the dining room jolted her out of her daydream; she reached instinctively for her pocket and her wand, only to remember she had locked her wand away in a trunk in the attic along with her many other magical belongings three years previously. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head, no, she had given up magic when she married Alexander, she couldn't lapse back into it now, and after all she had gone without it for so long now…
She stood up and made her way stealthily towards the dinning room door, grabbing a poker from the side of the fireplace as she went, she raised it up over her shoulder and gripped it tightly with two hands. When she reached the door she put out one foot and kicked the door open with a crash. But what she saw in her dinning room made her heart stop and made her fall backwards in surprise, dropping the metal poker and slicing through her robes, cutting her leg just above the knee.
She let out a cry of pain and fell backwards onto the hard marble floor of the hall, her eyes flashed from one figure to the other, six of them sat comfortably around her dinning table, their hands clasped out in front of them, hoods and masks obscuring their features, and one single figure stood by the open window on the other side of the room, shrouded in a long black cloak, his eyes flashing menacingly.
"Hello Chantelle." He hissed, and Chantelle let out a terrified scream.
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There, next chapter hopefully up shortly. Yes, I understand this doesn't seem to have much relevance yet, but this is just a sort of Prologue for the story, and yes I am aware that Chantelle's part was by far the weakest and worst written, but I assure you it will improve, although I am rather proud of Roman's section.
I appreciate your suggestions and comments