It was the tea.

There was no reason to suspect it, at the time; Jeremy was on tea-service duty this last week of the school year, as he had been several times before, and our intensive revision for final exams was pleasantly interrupted for an hour. The pent-up stress of the exams had gotten the better of some of the boys, who began firing bits of their biscuits at each other using rubber bands. It was mildly amusing, if admittedly childish, but I didn't join in, as I had rather abruptly begun to feel unwell.

A touch of the flu, I suspected; it had been making the rounds at Eton of late. Wretched timing, typically, but what could I do? I hastily gathered my books and returned to my flat, hoping that the queasiness I felt soon settled down into mere discomfort, so that I could return to my studies. I was due to fly home to New York in a few days, and while I could easily weather a spell at Kane Manor if necessary, I was eager to return to the States. There were too many events here in England that I wanted to forget, and distance always helped. New York might be just across the pond, as it were, but it was a plenty big pond.

I rubbed my left wrist. It wasn't sore anymore, but I had three metal pins in it now, thanks to Omar. Plus a small metal plate in the back of my head. At least the leg had healed cleanly; I would still be able to dance. He'd really done a number on me; even now I was too skittish to knowingly turn my back on someone, regardless of who they were and how much I trusted them. I'd trusted Omar, too, and it had gotten me as far as the hospital.

I had met Omar al-Hadif earlier this year, here at Eton. He was from Saudi Arabia, the son of a wealthy oil businessman. Like everyone else at Eton, he had grown up in a life of privilege; he was cultured, well-read, accustomed to the finer things in life. Unlike almost everyone else at Eton, he was drop-dead gorgeous. And he knew it.

He was attracted to me the moment we met. I, on the other hand, wasn't so easily swayed. Despite being an artist, I don't think with my eyes. Or maybe it's because I'm an artist; I'm always looking below the surface, trying to determine the true source of outward beauty -- the better to capture it on canvas, I suppose. I should have looked a hell of a lot harder at Omar.

I wasn't immune to his charismatic personality, and when he went to the effort to learn basic sign language -- and American sign, at that -- I couldn't hide the fact that I was touched. He was charming, attentive, and so gracious that I instantly forgave him the times when he was imperious and even controlling.

Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

Omar's cosmopolitan veneer hid an ugly side I never imagined he had. Even after he caught me unaware and beat me so viciously I could barely drag myself to bed several hours later, I still couldn't quite make myself believe that the assault had been premeditated. After all, he'd gotten utterly plastered at a party, and alcohol always brings out the worst in people. And he'd been so contrite the next morning; he was obviously embarrassed by his outburst, to the point where he swore it would never happen again.

Except that it did.

The second time was much, much worse. As before, I didn't see it coming; Omar liked to attack from behind, probably because he knew I was more than a match for him if I had time to defend myself. One moment I was studying for exams, the next there was a flash of blinding pain, then darkness, and I awoke in the hospital... three days later.

He'd concocted a tale that convinced all the authorities I'd been the victim of a gang of hooligans from another school. Omar was exceedingly persuasive, and it took very little effort on his part to spin a believable yarn. It only stunk like a rubbish tip to me because I knew better. I couldn't forgive him anymore; to do so would be sheer suicide. I let him know as much when he came to visit, strutting into the room as though he hadn't a thing to hide. One look in my eyes told him otherwise. He didn't try to bully me into backing down, although I saw him consider it; he just turned and left, without so much as a 'goodbye'. It was a hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless.

The hospital released me a month later, after all my broken bones had healed well enough for me to move about on my own. I didn't have to worry about fending off Omar; he'd abruptly left for Saudi Arabia shortly after his departure from my hospital room. But he'd left me a twisted parting gift: the splintered, bloodstained cricket bat he'd used on me.

I tossed it, of course, just like I'd gotten rid of everything that even remotely reminded me of his past presence in the flat. There had been nothing else to do all day, immobilized as I'd been with the casts and the doctor's orders to avoid anything strenuous. Had it been earlier in the year, I would have been assigned a new flatmate, but as it was, I had the place to myself; it gave me great peace of mind to know that I could close my eyes at night without fear of being attacked.

I dropped my books on my desk the moment I got home and stared at my hands. They were shaking. A wave of dizziness swept over me, and I leaned against the wall for support, wondering if I could make it as far as the bed without collapsing. If this was the flu, it was the most aggressive virus I'd ever encountered.

Why I hadn't seen him standing there, I'll never know. Maybe he'd been hiding; more likely, I was too disoriented. But his lightly-accented voice sent cold fingers of pure horror down my spine, and I nearly fell over as I wheeled around to stare at him.

"Do you like the little treat I had Jeremy add to your tea?" Omar purred, clearly enjoying my fear. "I told him it was something that would make you happy to see me." He crossed the distance between us like a stalking panther, trapping me against the wall. "Well," he admitted, "maybe not 'happy' per se, but at the very least unable to protest overly much. I see it's working quite nicely, too."

He took hold of my arms, pulling me away from the wall and toward the bed. I tried to resist, but it was all I could do to remain on my feet; my strength was fading with every step. Whatever he had slipped into my tea was taking effect with a vengeance, and he forced me down on the bed with ease.

My body felt leaden, my mind full of cotton wool. He ran his fingers through my hair, smiling down at me gently. Bending his head close to my ear, he whispered, "You're mine now, beautiful angel. Body and soul, forever."

If he said anything else, I missed it as I slid into unconsciousness.

The next time my eyes opened, it was to a haze of featureless white. It took me a while to comprehend that I'd been wrapped like a mummy in my bedsheet. What the devil was Omar getting at this time? Thank God the sheet was as thin as it was, or I would have suffocated by now. Served me right, I guess, for not thinking to change the damn lock, but I'd been so certain he wouldn't dare come back. Attempting to free myself was useless; the drugs hadn't fully worn off yet, and the sheets were bound so tightly around me that I suspected they were secured with ropes.

The same time I realized that I was no longer lying in bed but rather sitting in a reclining seat, a hand tugged the sheets away from my face and I found myself looking up at Omar's irritated scowl. "You insist on being troublesome, Joseph," he chided. "First you make me take you home, and now you've shaken off the sedative far too soon."

He sat back in his seat and began rummaging through a leather travel bag at his feet. I watched him distantly, wondering what he'd meant. There was a small oval window set into the wall beside him, but the view was only darkness. Terror knotted my stomach as my brain finally kicked into gear, recognizing my surroundings as Omar's private jet. "Home" was Saudi Arabia, and from the look of things, we were already well underway. I frantically renewed my efforts to escape from the sheets, ignoring the futility of such an action when we were already in the air. Flashbacks of the Jackal overwhelmed me; the last time I'd been kidnapped, I nearly died, and I had no desire to repeat that experience.

Unconcerned with my struggles, Omar retrieved a vial of clear liquid from his travel bag and leaned toward me. I turned my head away, the best I could do for resistance with the rest of me still trussed up. He grabbed my jaw angrily, pushing my head back and digging his fingers into my cheeks to pry my lips apart. Pouring the fluid into my mouth, he immediately clamped his hand tightly over my mouth to prevent me from spitting it out. With his free hand, he pressed his thumb into my throat, triggering a gag reflex that compelled me to swallow the drug.

His brief fury vanished abruptly, and he turned his oddly possessive smile on me once more. "I never pegged you as the defiant sort," he murmured, gently wiping away the tears that rolled slowly down my cheeks. "That was my one mistake. Who would have guessed what steel lay behind those quiet, sea-green eyes? But you managed to become my favorite, in spite of it all."

He planted a quick kiss on my forehead before enshrouding me in the sheet once again. I didn't fight it; instead, I used what little time I had to pray that someone would notify my mother of my absence. She would investigate immediately and thoroughly... she was my only hope, now. Then the undiluted double dose of sedative took hold, dragging me and my frail hopes into oblivion.

Pain pounded in my temples, worming its way into my brain and settling behind my closed eyes. I'd been having headaches ever since Omar cracked my skull open, but never this bad. The doctors had warned me to avoid stress, since an increase in blood pressure translated into an increase in cranial pressure, which was the last thing my brain needed. I'd have given anything to avoid this particular stress, but Omar had other plans.

Even before I was fully awake, I was aware of lying on a hard surface. Opening my eyes, I saw I was on the floor of a small, featureless white room. There was no window, but a single fluorescent light flickered annoyingly overhead. The light hurt my eyes, making my headache that much worse. At least the temperature was nicely climate-controlled, which was especially good in that I wasn't wearing anything.

Well, nothing that counted as clothes, at any rate.

I frowned at the manacles circling my wrists and ankles. They weren't as restrictive as handcuffs, but the foot-long length of chain still didn't allow for much movement -- walking would be all but impossible. It shouldn't have surprised me, since Omar knew I was a skilled fighter, and he had every reason to anticipate a fight. Not that it would do much good, at this point; if I'd been taken to Saudi Arabia, escaping from Omar would do little if I couldn't then get home.

I sat up and was nearly pulled back down by the short chain which fastened the metal collar around my neck to the floor. Among a host of bad signs so far, this was the worst. Was this just another of Omar's sadistic twists, or was there something even more ominous behind this odd restraint?

I sighed. It was one more of many things that made no sense. Why was I here to begin with? I definitely hadn't been kidnapped for ransom; Omar's family had loads more money than both of my parents combined. And Omar had been quick enough to leave the hospital the moment he saw that I wouldn't put up with his abuse any longer, so the thought that he'd abducted me because he couldn't let go of our relationship was simply absurd. Nor did political motives appear to have anything to do with it, as Saudi Arabia was on friendly terms with both England and America, and I wasn't from a politically-important family, at any rate. Which meant I could still hope that this was all just a bizarre nightmare, from which I would awaken at any moment now.

No such luck.

Well, that left only selling me as an exotic sex-slave to some Arab sheik. It wasn't really funny -- things like that still happened, in too many countries -- but it was either laugh or get hysterical, and somehow, I didn't think hysteria would help me any. Besides, why else would Omar have taken my clothes? Eton's school uniform wasn't that nice.

I had to concentrate on something other than my current situation, or I would get hysterical. Unfortunately, the room left little else on which to focus my attention. Floor, walls, and ceiling were all covered in white linoleum, certainly an odd decor choice, but not one to hold my interest for any length of time. There was a drain set into the floor near my feet, despite the fact that there was no visible source of water that might require plumbing. The sole door was narrow and tightly sealed to its frame, making me suspect that the room was soundproofed... yet another bad sign.

I busied myself with trying to squirm free of my bonds -- a hopeless task, but it kept my mind off Omar. Whatever he had planned was not going to be good, and if there was a chance I could escape, I would take it, however tiny it may be. If only my damn headache would go away; I had enough problems already without my eyes feeling like they were going to pop out of my skull.

Time was not on my side. The door opened silently and Omar stepped into the room, dressed in black and carrying a duffel bag. He didn't look at me as he locked the door behind him and began searching through his bag. I caught a glimpse of a small garden hose, a whip, and what looked like a butcher knife before he pulled out the object he'd been searching for and zipped the bag closed.

I have to admit I've never seen a silverplated crowbar before. I hope to God I never see one again. Knowing Omar's penchant for violence, I had no doubt as to what he intended to do with it. That he would even have such a thing, treated as a prized possession no less, was sick beyond words.

'They'll be looking for me at Eton,' I warned him, stalling for time. 'By now, everyone knows that you were the last person to see me there.'

He smiled, but unlike before, his expression held no affection; it was the cold, feral grin of a predator, nothing more. "What of it?" he replied lightly, casually caressing the crowbar. "We had a fling for old time's sake, you saw me off to my jet, and that's the last I saw of you. If you never made it home, well, these things happen occasionally. Perhaps that gang of hooligans found you again, and dumped your body in the Thames. The hue and cry will die down soon enough; it always does."

He said that as though he knew it to be the truth. 'My mother won't be so easily dissuaded. She'll hunt you down here in Saudi Arabia to find out what happened to me.'

That got a laugh. "She won't be the first to try. But you won't be anywhere she can find you, by then."

Even with all the cues, I hadn't wanted to acknowledge what I'd feared all along, but looking into Omar's dead, emotionless eyes, I couldn't deny it any longer. Omar was more than an abusive ex, more than a demented kidnapper.

Omar was a serial killer.

Everything suddenly fell into place. He couldn't kill me at our flat; that would have pointed directly to him. I was supposed to have died in the hospital, with no one the wiser. But my subsequent recovery and refusal to cower in the face of his violence was a threat to his anonymity. He'd been forced to take more extreme action, fearing that I would eventually tell the authorities, who might then track him down. Not that he had to fear extradition to a Western country, but it would put a serious crimp in his favorite hobby.

"You're the first one I've had to take home," he explained, tapping the crowbar against his open palm. "You should feel honored."

My expression told him what I thought about that particular "honor". I was trapped in a specially-designed killing room with a murderous psychopath, but I wasn't about to go down without a fight, chains or no chains. Omar seemed to find that concept amusing. When he swung the crowbar down at my head, I brought up my arms to block the blow, wrapping the length of chain around the end of the crowbar and immobilizing it between my wrists.

No longer amused, he planted a swift kick in my ribs, and I cried out in pain as I felt the newly-healed bones give way. Pulling the crowbar free, he stood over me and prepared to deliver the coup de grace. Knowing I couldn't stop him, I glared up at him, wishing there was some way I could free myself and force him to drop the crowbar.

Our eyes met, and my wish came true.

There was an odd wrenching sensation, as though I had thrown myself forward, and suddenly I was standing, looking down at a pair of empty manacles. The crowbar fell from my hand in shock, and as it hit the floor, I realized that somehow I was now in Omar's body. What had happened to my own body was a mystery; it had vanished into thin air. Would I be able to get it back? I certainly hoped so; the last thing I wanted to do was spend the rest of my life as Omar.

Omar felt the same way, only with more fury. I was in his mind, could sense his thoughts, his emotions -- and his twisted memories, full of blood and death. Oh God, I didn't want to see this, I didn't want to know, but I didn't even know how I'd gotten into his head, much less how to get out again. His body moved haltingly to my commands, not his, with the exception of his voice, which cursed loudly in Arabic at me. Strangely enough, I understood everything he said, even though I didn't know a word of Arabic.

Maybe if I willed myself out, the way I had willed myself in, I would be free of him. I felt our contact dissolve, and with a jarring shift in perspective I was standing next to him, once more in my own body. He was clutching his head as if in pain; ironic, since my headache had miraculously disappeared. This once, I was glad my mother had taught me how to fight, and I used that skill to kick Omar unconscious. Snatching up his fallen crowbar, I aimed it at his head, stopping myself in mid-swing and hurling the weapon away. Good Lord, what had I been about to do? Was that my own rage, or some leftover effect of having been in Omar's mind? I fervently hoped it was the latter.

I had to escape while he was still unconscious. The door had a combination lock, but I unlocked it before I had time to be surprised that I knew the combination. I had picked up a lot of information from Omar; not consciously, but it was there nonetheless. The other side of the door was painted in decorative Arabic geometric and floral designs. A banner arched over the doorway which read, "Allah is God". The fact that it was written in Arabic didn't prevent me from reading it.

The room beyond the door was Omar's bedroom. Sick, sick, sick. He hadn't even put his killing room in the basement or an outdoor shed; it was right next to his private quarters. He probably enjoyed the lingering smell of blood that would permeate his bedroom. Or maybe he hadn't thought it out well; I was the first, he'd said.

I had to find my clothes. I knew he still had them; all serial killers keep trophies, and the usual body parts would be a tad too incriminating for his taste. I stopped trying to second-guess where he might keep such things, and let my subconscious knowledge direct me to the proper place. Not surprisingly, it was his giant walk-in closet -- a room in and of itself -- where he tucked his trophies away on a special rack. Nearly a dozen boxes were stored there, each neatly labelled with three letters and a date.

I grabbed the box marked "JWW" and flicked off the lid. Sure enough, my clothes were there, cleaned, pressed, and folded as though they were brand-new. Socks, underwear, shoes, everything. Despite my broken ribs, I was dressed in record time, but once I returned to Omar's bedroom, I was at a loss as to how I should proceed. The mansion was huge, and filled with people. He lived there with his parents, six younger siblings, and a widowed older sister and her four children. By day, there were also nearly a hundred hired helpers roaming around, busy at their various tasks. There was no way I would make it out of his bedroom unnoticed.

But I couldn't stay here indefinitely. When Omar awoke, he would escape from his hidden room as easily as I had. I wanted to be long gone by then. In search of something that might aid my flight, I prowled around his quarters. It was more than a mere bedroom and closet; he had his own suite of rooms, including a kitchen and a huge marble-tiled bathroom, complete with a giant fish tank.

Ravenous, I raided the kitchen, taking the last of his hummus, a couple of pitas, and a glass of iced tea. Wandering back out into his lounge, I spied his wallet lying on the table. Would having that help me in any way? I wasn't planning on buying anything -- other than a one-way ticket home, and I had my own credit card for that. I checked my jacket pocket, but my wallet was gone. Doubtless Omar had left it at Eton, not wanting traceable evidence in his home. And his credit cards were probably photo-ID, making them useless for me. Damn.

But I was curious. Dropping onto the soft suede couch, I picked up Omar's eelskin wallet and flipped it open. The standard ID card, credit cards, family photo. A few bills for small purchases; evidently the majority of his shopping was done by credit. I almost closed the wallet when I noticed something tucked into one of the nearly-hidden inside pockets.

It was a thin plastic photo file. Each slot held two photos, back to back. Picture after picture of young, handsome, blonde, European men. By the time I reached my own photo, I was too numb to respond. So many men, and I was the only one of them still alive... though not for long, if I didn't get out of Omar's house soon. I slid the photos into my pocket and tossed Omar's wallet back onto the table.

Peeking out from behind one velvet curtain, I surveyed the grounds beyond Omar's window. I couldn't see much, since it was night, but that would work in my favor. Omar's rooms were on the third floor, and I would have to descend to ground level outside in order to avoid the mansion's numerous occupants. The less people who could see me in the darkness, the better.

I turned off all the lights in his room -- no incriminating silhouette to arouse idle curiosity -- and slid open the balcony door. There was a downspout running along the wall next to the edge of the balcony. I hoped it was strong enough to support my weight, because it was the only way I was going to make it down to the ground. And if not, well, I would find out soon enough.

I quickly discovered as I swung myself out over the balcony's ledge that such maneuvers were agonizing when performed with broken ribs. I nearly lost my grip on the downspout as burning knives of pain stabbed deep into my chest; as it was, my descent was much more rapid than I would have preferred. The shock as I hit the ground drove me to my knees and triggered a violent bout of coughing. I could taste blood -- that and my shortness of breath told me I'd punctured a lung. With any luck I wouldn't have to outrun anyone and it wouldn't matter.

I walked as rapidly as I could across the compound, avoiding the marble paths and their lights. The surrounding fence was more decoration than true barrier, and scaling it was simple enough, even injured as I was. But free of Omar's home didn't mean safe. I was still in Saudi Arabia -- illegally, I was sure -- and the only remotely safe place would be either the British or American embassy.

The American embassy was across town, but the British one was only a mile away. It would work just as well, since I was a duel citizen of both countries. Maybe even better, since I'd been taken from England; they'd have more of a personal interest in seeing me back home and safe. Thank God my new powers had picked up the information I needed from Omar.

My new powers... good Lord, I was a mutant. The realization struck me so hard I stopped dead in my tracks. What would people think? There weren't that many mutants around, but people didn't seem too happy with the ones they knew about. Would my friends reject me if they knew? Would my mother? I didn't think so, but... it didn't take a genius to figure out where these abilities came from. I was born after dad had gone through the Army experiments; as he'd been changed, so I was changed. My powers might be too reminiscent of dad's for mom's taste. After all, without those powers, he never would have become Deathstroke the Terminator, and had he never taken on the life of a mercenary, I never would have been attacked by the Jackal. He and mom would still be married. Grant wouldn't have followed in his father's footsteps and died as a result. As much as my mother loved me, I could see that this would not be an easy revelation for her to accept.

First things first. Mom would never know anything if I didn't escape from Riyadh. I forced myself onward, slowing only once I approached the embassy grounds. Western embassies were on alert throughout the Middle East, ever since a terrorist attack on a US embassy had left several hundred people dead. Despite my European appearance, they weren't going to grant me entry in the middle of the night with no ID and no one to back up my implausible yet true tale.

A lone guard paced the outer perimeter of the embassy. Could I use my new power on him without his knowledge? Omar had been aware of my presence in his head, but then, Omar had seen me vanish right in front of him. I focused on the guard, trying to project myself forward, as had happened with Omar.

Nothing.

Maybe my power required proximity; I was still pretty far away from the guard, and I'd been mere centimeters from Omar. That memory triggered an alarming realization. I hadn't taken the manacles when I'd possessed Omar -- would I be able to take my clothes? This power would quickly prove to be less than practical if I ended up starkers after using it. Since there was no way for me to know the answer to that question without using the power again, I pushed it to the back of my mind and concentrated on how to use my power in the first place. Part 2!