Immortal Lycanthropes

Immortal Lycanthropes

3.1 7
by Hal Johnson, Teagan White

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"A shameful fact about humanity is that some people can be so ugly that no one will be friends with them. It is shameful that humans can be so cruel, and it is shameful that humans can be so ugly."

So begins the incredible story of Myron Horowitz, a disfigured thirteen-year-old just trying to fit in at his Pennsylvania school. When a fight with a bully leaves him

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"A shameful fact about humanity is that some people can be so ugly that no one will be friends with them. It is shameful that humans can be so cruel, and it is shameful that humans can be so ugly."

So begins the incredible story of Myron Horowitz, a disfigured thirteen-year-old just trying to fit in at his Pennsylvania school. When a fight with a bully leaves him unconscious and naked in the wreckage of the cafeteria, Myron discovers that he is an immortal lycanthrope—a were-mammal who can transform from human to animal. He also discovers that there are others like him, and many of them want Myron dead. “People will turn into animals,” says the razor-witted narrator of this tour-de-force, “and here come ancient secrets and rivers of blood.”

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Johnson’s debut never quite finds its footing, but the chaos of the plot and smugly self-conscious narration are tempered by some fascinating concepts and a hefty dose of the absurd. Myron Horo-witz, an adopted orphan whose scarred face reflects a childhood trauma, is a ninth grader who still looks like he’s eight years old. When he becomes the target of a bully one day, his hidden powers send the other boy to the hospital and bring Myron to the attention of people trying to kill or save him. He learns that he’s one of the titular creatures, which can transform into animals and can only die at the hands of another lycanthrope. Myron’s misadventures introduce him to secret societies (it turns out the Illuminati prevented WWI for 100 years), dangerous tests, and allies that range from a cheese-addicted weremoose to a helpful but larcenous weregorilla. The wackiness sits oddly against some of the more brutal and serious moments (including murdered teens, kidnapped and enslaved children, etc.), but the mythology Johnson creates is intriguing. Final art not seen by PW. Ages 12–up. (Sept.)
From the Publisher

"Filled with sarcasm and humor, this book will appeal to all teens . . . Teachers will love the high-level vocabulary (and content clues), sophisticated mathematical and scientific references, and non-stop allusions to writers, poets, books, and historical events."

"Johnson's debut novel is original and thought-provoking."
School Library Journal

Children's Literature - Claudia Mills
Grotesquely disfigured Myron Horowitz—with his "twisted, noseless face" and body of an eight-year-old at age thirteen—presents an obvious target for brutal bullies at his high school. But after a mysterious explosion at school leaves him "unconscious and totally naked," Myron comes to discover that he is actually an "immoral lycanthrope," a weremammal of some unidentified kind who can transform himself from human to animal. He also discovers that he is targeted for kidnapping and murder by various hostile sources—in fact for many kidnappings and many attempted murders—spread out over almost 300 densely-written pages. The strikingly original narrative voice initially feels clever and ironic, but after a while comes to feel self-indulgent and wearisome. As Myron's bizarre misfortunes accumulate, a lot happens, but the story itself seems to go nowhere. When Myron has the thought that "he had been knocked unconscious entirely too many times recently," this is because chapter after chapter ends in this way. When Myron reflects that the first time he "stared down [his] own death," he was "really scared," but now "it's just something that happens to me," it is because at this stage in the novel, random, unmotivated violence keeps occurring with stale predictability. When the narrator comments that "life becomes a series of meaningless incidents," it is because the novel itself, ending with little closure or resolution, has itself become such a series. Reviewer: Claudia Mills, Ph.D.
VOYA - Christina Miller
The narrator of Hal Johnson’s debut fantasy novel talks to his readers as he describes how Myron Horowitz, a short, nose-less, sexually immature, ninth-grade lycanthrope (not exactly), uncovers mysteries of his past to find his place in the world. Victimized by bullies at Henry Clay High School in “suburban western Pennsylvania,” Myron is temporarily rescued by fellow lycanthropes (one is the narrator of the story) only to be captured by other lycanthropes who plan to kill him or use him for their own ends. Finally escaping, he painfully adventures across the country to New York City, Chicago, and eventually to Portland and St. Clemente Island, fending off his captors all the way to discover “who he is.” He faces danger and extraordinary physical challenges with bravery and levelheadedness, and meets many colorful characters along way. Filled with sarcasm and humor, this book will appeal to all teens, especially animal lovers and fantasy fans. Like the narrator, readers will be filled with Schadenfreude as bullies and bad guys suffer and meet with awful and violent ends. Johnson depicts vivid city and country scenes, and beautiful images of nature and wildlife that are supplemented by Teagan White’s delightful drawings of the lycanthropes. Teachers will love the high-level vocabulary (and content clues), sophisticated mathematical and scientific references, and non-stop allusions to writers, poets, books, and historical events. Though plot details get unwieldy at times, this book is enchanting and funny, filled with glib narrative asides, and superbly concluded. Ages 15 to 18.
Kirkus Reviews
A dark, surreal adventure follows Myron, in the company of animal shape-shifters, as he seeks his true identity. Myron, a ninth-grader who appears to be about 8 years old, is "short, scrawny, and hideous." Found, apparently abandoned and terribly disfigured, and adopted five years before, he has been the victim of relentless bullying. In the wake of a mammoth fight, he finds himself effectively kidnapped by human/animal shape-shifters called lycanthropes. He quickly discovers that he, too, is a lycanthrope, but no one, not even Myron, knows his true form. In this doom-laden tale it's impossible to tell friend from foe. As Myron stumbles from one misadventure to another and witnesses numerous deaths, he encounters the few remaining lycanthropes in existence, and the lying, scheming lot of them want to use or kill him. He's misguided by, among others, a gorilla, spends the winter in the woods with a moose mentor and is held prisoner in the Fortress of Id. Ultimately, Myron's charged with transporting a "doomsday device," and his goal becomes reaching the Rosicrucians in hopes of learning his purpose and animal identity. The tale is not for the faint of heart: There are scenes of torture and a reference to sexual excitement induced by violence. Drenched in nihilism, the story's message, as voiced by the archly intrusive narrator (and one of the lycanthropes), is, "once you remove the possibility of being a good or bad individual, life becomes a series of meaningless incidents." This quixotic, uber-intellectual debut, laced with literary and historical references, has some comedic elements, but is, perhaps, too smart for its own good. (Fantasy. 14 & up)
School Library Journal
Gr 10 Up—Myron Horowitz, an adopted orphan, is severely disfigured as a result of a childhood tragedy. A ninth grader who looks about eight, he is a misunderstood loner and suffers from constant intimidation. But a life-altering experience changes things forever when he unknowingly unleashes powers defending himself against a school bully. He discovers that he is a lycanthrope, a human/animal shape-shifter. The story is told by Arthur, who is also a lycanthrope. Sought after by others of his kind, Myron begins a bizarre and mysterious journey that involves kidnapping, misadventures, murder, dangerous tests, and numerous secret societies, all while trying to discover his true form and purpose in the world. Johnson's debut novel is original and thought-provoking, especially the unique mythology intertwined with literary and historical references. Unfortunately, the craziness of the plot makes it hard to stay committed and focused. Arthur's witty and snarky narration is entertaining but not enough to engage readers in the plight of the protagonist.—Donna Rosenblum, Floral Park High School, NY

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Product Details

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
5.82(w) x 8.46(h) x 1.00(d)
Age Range:
12 Years

Read an Excerpt

   A shameful fact about humanity is that some people can be so ugly that no one will be friends with them. It is shameful that humans can be so cruel, and it is shameful that humans can be so ugly.
   It would be easy to paint a sob story here, but I am trying to remain objective. So: Myron Horowitz, short, scrawny, and hideous, had no friends. The year before, in eighth grade, he had three people he used to eat lunch with. They had perhaps been his friends, but one had moved away over the summer, one had transferred to a private school, and one had gone through puberty and come out popular. Myron Horowitz had not only not gone through puberty, he had not grown an inch in the last five years, not since his accident. People viewing him from behind assumed he was eight years old; from the front, a different set of assumptions came into play. His face had been partially reconstructed, and it was probably very well done, considering what was left to work with. But it was still a twisted, noseless face, and Myron ate alone now. Worse than eating alone, though, was the walk home. At Henry Clay High School, students who took a bus home passed from their locker through the gymnasium to convene in the parking lot; students who walked home took a different route, through the cafeteria and out through a side door, along a wooded path to the sidewalk. Very few students walked home, but Myron did, and so did Garrett Bercelli.
   Garrett was not overly large for a freshman, but compared to Myron he was a heavyweight champion. His hands especially were large, and, as they say, sinewy. He probably had reasons for his antisocial behavior, but, frankly, they don’t concern me. He can die and go to hell for all I care, once he has served his purpose in our narrative.
   There are disadvantages, I am aware, to beginning our story this fast. Perhaps I should have given Myron a few scenes at home, curled up with his adventure books or bumping elbows with his parents at their cozy breakfast nook. But really, who wants to see that horrible face eat? And anyway, we have places to go. Myron, two years ago, had had a fourth friend, but he died; that part is pretty funny, when you think about it, and if you are heartless, but I barely have time to mention Danny Fitzsimmons. We have places to go. People will turn into animals, and here come ancient secrets and rivers of blood.

   It was on a crisp October day in suburban western Pennsylvania, beneath the golden panoply of leaves some people find so charming, that Garrett Bercelli introduced himself to Myron by picking him up and playfully throwing him into a pricker bush. Two days later he cut right to the chase and punched Myron in the stomach. That was a Friday. On Monday, Garrett really went wild; he forbore (so he explained during the course of the beating) to touch Myron’s horrible face, but he pummeled the rest of his body quite mercilessly. At last Myron spat up some blood, and Garrett ran away.
   Obviously I cannot literally enter Garrett Bercelli’s head, to observe the shadow parade of his thought processes, but I have investigated the matter enough that I believe I can produce a fairly accurate reconstruction. Garrett ran home, convinced, I believe, that he had killed or maimed poor Myron. This fact in itself did not concern him, but the risk that he would be caught, and punished, was enough to send him hiding in his bed, the way he had as a child. He hadn’t meant to kill Myron, after all, and this should be taken into account. It had all been juvenile high spirits, and things had just gone too far. Garrett could hardly remember the beating, he could just remember the feeling it had given him, the rushing sound in his ears and the reckless abandon. Whether it gave him an erection I do not pretend to know, but let’s assume the answer is yes. The idea that anything as wonderful as the emotions he had undergone in the course of that afternoon could land him in the reformatory was intolerable. He went to school the next day filled with righteousindignation and a healthy dollop of fear (he had, in fact, tried to feign sickness, but his mother would have none of it). Imagine his relief when he saw, in homeroom, Myron at his desk, alive and apparently hale. The relief would have quickly turned to excitement. You may recall the feeling you have had on first discovering that the author of a favorite book had written a dozen more, perhaps under various pseudonyms, the feeling of a world of possibilities opening up. Garrett did not know what that felt like, because, as best I have been able to determine, he had never finished a book not assigned to school, and few of those. As I said, he probably had reasons for being so violent, reasons that do not concern us. But what Garrett felt at that moment was analogous to a reader’s joy. Here was something he could do, something he was good at and could get away with.
   “ Tuesday, fish sticks; Wednesday, spaghetti; Thursday, meat loaf . . .” the loudspeaker was intoning for the week, when Garrett leaned down a half inch from Myron’s ear.
   “If you miss one day,” he hissed, referring either to school or to their meetings after and behind it, “I will kill you.”
   Myron was less pleased with the arrangement. His entire body still ached from yesterday’s pummeling, obviously, and there had been blood in his urine. He considered telling his parents, his adoptive parents who had taken him in after the accident. Dr. and Mrs. Horowitz were good people—you don’t adopt a deformed eight-year-old unless you are reasonably unselfish—but it’s no use pretending they understoood him. They made a game effort, but a child who never grew an inch from the moment he had been found crawling dazed and torn up along the Maine coast five years ago never really made much sense to them. When Myron looked upset (for example), they cheerfully tended to remind him that at his next birthday he’d be allowed a cell phone, unaware that his true worry was that he’d have no one to call. They were always unaware. I don’t want to have a pity party for Myron Horowitz. He ends up okay, and I have frankly had worse days than his that week. But I have not had many days worse than his worst. Myron was scared, and he was too scared to admit to anyone that he was scared. He had thought about carrying a knife, and had even packed one to bring to school that day, a steak knife from his mother’s kitchen, but it fell out of his knapsack somewhere between home and school, which may have been for the best. Tuesday was a long, slow day; every day at school is a long, slow day, but this one was somethingspecial.
   That Tuesday afternoon, after school, Myron decided to try leaving by a different route. From his locker he slipped downstairs and into the lobby, the one with the trophy cases and the door to the administrative offices. If he could go out the school’s wide front door, he would be on a busy street, where Garrett would, presumably, be unable to make his assault. Myron may have been a little afraid that Garrett would make good his threat, his threat to kill him, but he was absolutely terrified of another beating like yesterday’s. He knew it would be shameful to cry, but he was afraid enough that he could feel the tears welling. He was often called “Baby” by his peers, just because of his height, and he was desperate not to have the nickname lengthened to “Crybaby.” “Chip” was the nickname he had selected for himself and that no one used. Garrett’s nickname for him, which was catching on around the school, was “Faggot.”
   As Myron approached the front doors, he heard a voice behind him, saying, “Young man”—the vice principal’s voice, he realized, as he turned around.
   Myron said nothing in response.
   “Where do you think you’re going? ” asked the vice principal, a Mr. Zaborsky, famous at the country club, perhaps, for his slice, but known at Henry Clay primarily for having hair in his ears and a butt crack that peeked over his belt like a mischievous gremlin when he was standing up, only to leap forth with a yawning maw if God forbid he should bend over. This is all terribly unfair to the man, but Myron was so terrifyingly ugly that it is sometimes necessary to remind those of his acquaintance that ugliness is all around, and not limited to that hideous face. Right now, in fact, there is something ugly happening under a rock nearby; if you are near a rock, turn it over and you will see a worm going to the bathroom. Ugly things are happening in your intestines as you read this. A million million ugly microbes are crawling on your skin. Have you even been in a dim room and seen, in the one ray of light that lanced some distance away through the window, a sparkling miasma of dust motes? And have you then thought to yourself, Thank the good Lord I am not on that side of the room, in that sunbeam,—for if I were, every breath would require the inhalation of that furry, filthy air? It’s just as dusty where you’re standing, of course, but you are able to pretend it is not. That’s the kind of deception you’re apt to put over on yourself when you see Myron. Perhaps that was what Mr. Zaborsky was thinking as he wiggled his hips and tugged at his pants.
   “Home? ” Myron asked.
   “Home? Home? Don’t you know,” Mr. Zaborsky intoned, rather enjoying the moment, “that all those not taking a bus are to exit through the cafeteria? ”
   “I didn’t think it would matter,” Myron said, in a very quiet voice. “This way is closer for me, is all.”
   “Closer for you? ” Mr. Zaborsky rather began to strut. He hooked his thumbs in imaginary suspenders. It is likely that in his mind he was a great orator, and he only on occasion had the opportunity to employ the art that was his secret calling. “The exit to which you are headed is reserved for faculty, staff, and visitors. Students are privileged with their own twin exits, one through the gymnasium and one through the cafeteria. Now, what would happen if we all decided to ignore the rules, and just go our own merry way? Anarchy, that’s what! Do you know what anarchy is? ”
   With infinite patience, and, doubtless, not without kindness and wisdom, Mr. Zaborsky perorated about the benefits of a law and the pandemonium of lawlessness. When he finally watched Myron turn and trudge back to the cafeteria, he beamed with the saintly face of someone who has “made a difference.” But don’t be too hard on him. It is no easy thing, never to have made a difference; and, to be fair, when he heard the news the next morning, he momentarily wondered if he could have done anything to prevent it. Quickly he concluded that he had done all that was humanly possible, but he did have that moment, and that moment is something.
   Nervously, to himself, Myron hummed as he entered the cafeteria.
   You have perhaps already anticipated that Garrett Bercelli, tiring of the wait, unaware that his date had been held captive by Zaborsky’s endless lecture, had been himself drawn into the cafeteria, where he was standing, awkwardly, when Myron entered.
   The cafeteria was a foolish place to try anything, because, although the room was empty now, the internal wall facing the hallway was nothing but a row of large windows. Across the hall were the windows of the nurse’s office, and the nurse always stayed late; she could easily see anything untoward happening in the cafeteria, if she just looked over. But Garrett was too excited to waste time dragging his prey outside.
   “You know you’re going to have to pay for making me wait,” he said. He was smiling as he said it, and it was a genuine smile. He was so happy, his hands were shaking.
    “Leave me alone,” said Myron unconvincingly. He was a very tiny boy, I hope I have stressed, as well as an ugly one.
   “What happened to your face, anyway, faggot? ”
   “I don’t remember,” Myron said, which was true. He remembered nothing of the accident, nor of his life before it.
   “I’m going to give you something to remember.”
   After that some other things happened, and then there was a loud crashing sound. The nurse, and then several teachers, came running. (Mr. Zaborsky was in the bathroom.)
   As a safety precaution, the school had some years before begun installing shatterproof glass, the kind with hexagons of chicken wire inside it. Then new safety advisories had indicated that the chicken-wire glass was in fact more dangerous than regular glass, for reasons that should become clear soon, and the school had stopped the replacements; but it had never gotten around to undoing what it had done.
   This bit of history, dug up and reported in the local papers that week, is necessary for an understanding of how it was that Garrett smashed through the regular windows between the cafeteria and the hallway, and smashed into the reinforced shatterproof windows of the nurse’s office. He became caught in the chicken wire, several feet off the ground, and hung there, bleeding.
   And there in the cafeteria—it was weird. All the tables and chairs, all of them, were tipped over and scattered to the periphery of the room. And alone in the center lay Myron, unconscious and totally naked.
They never found more than a few strips of his clothes, although the air was filled with wisps of cotton and loose, tumbling threads.

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What People are saying about this

From the Publisher
"Filled with sarcasm and humor, this book will appeal to all teens . . . Teachers will love the high-level vocabulary (and content clues), sophisticated mathematical and scientific references, and non-stop allusions to writers, poets, books, and historical events."

"Johnson's debut novel is original and thought-provoking."
School Library Journal

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Immortal Lycanthropes 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 5 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
First of all if you....I don'y know if you would enjoy it.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
(Idea credit goes to Lilywolf of Horseclan. No, I am no her.) <br> A white and silver female wolf padded in, her eyes flashing in the light. She jumped up on a rock, looking out at the surrounding wolves. "Hello," she said. "My name is Andromeda. I am the Alpha Female of the Nebula Pack, and Founder of the Exceed Packs. Have you ever wished you could have a solid pack that never dies? A pack that never allies with another pack only to find that pack dies out soon after, or never comes as promised when they are needed? A pack without the cluttered background of dozens of other cks clamouring to steal your pack members? There is now a solution to that. That solution is the Exceed Packs. The Exceed Packs are similar to the cats' Pact Clans, but for wolves. The Exceed Packs are made up of the Nebula, Mad-Eye, Night, Grace, MacMoon, and Brave Packs. These packs rp only with each other, and even have a pack designed to steal prey, attacks packs, and generally cause mischeif. This is the Mad-Eye Pack. The six packs rp realistically, and follow the Exceed Pack Rule Code, so everything stays realistic and runs smoothly. This includes our ranks, identical for each pack, which are as follows: <p> Alpha (2) <br> Beta (2)<br> Gamma (2) <br> Delta (2) <br> Hunters (Unlimited) <br> Scouts (Unlimited) <br> Pups (Unlimited) <br> Omegas (3) <p> That is the Exceed Packs! The search is 'lycanthrope' just to reiterate a bit. The results may become mixed up, but the general layout contains these places: <p> Exceed Pack Introduction (Which is what you're reading.) <br> Meeting Place <br> Pack Descriptions <br> Pups That Need RPers <br> Exceed Pack Rule Code <br> Weather Vote <br> Pack Borders <br> And more! So explore, and you'll find what you're looking for eventually. Welcome to the Exceed Packs!"
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
RobertN More than 1 year ago
I thoroughly enjoyed this book. The voice of the narrator is excellent. I liked how he thought the book was about him, and the fact that it didn't seem to bother him that he wasn't present for most of the story. In all fairness, I do know the author. For an impartial review, you should read Cory Doctorow's on BoingBoing.