The House of Grey- Volume 5

by Earl, Collin

  “It sounds almost like some sort of beauty contest,” said Monson, half-joking.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Wait—you’re not kidding?” Monson was incredulous.

  “Let me assure you I understand your indignation, ‘tis a terrible travesty.” Casey matched Monson’s tone. “If I was going to hold a beauty contest at least I’d do it properly and have a swimsuit competition. Best flipping part.”

  Monson broke into laughter again. It made him slightly light-headed. Artorius looked very pleased at the thought of a swimsuit contest. Casey merely smiled.

  The boys continued to walk around The GM’s outer halls for a time. It would be at least an hour until the kitchens opened and breakfast was served. Finally, they decided to go and lounge in the Inner Gardens.

  It was a beautiful day as only Washington State could deliver. Spring had definitely come. Constant rain had provided for lush greens and invigorated earth, which gave off the impression of new life. Though the gloom of the seemingly unending rain was depressing, it made it all the better when the sun came out.

  Today was such a day. The sky was clear, clearer than Monson had seen it in a long time. It was also warm and surprisingly dry. The three boys settled behind one of the hedges that lined the walkway, which were tall and dense enough that they could sit right off the path and not be seen. Monson lay down on the grass, not much inclined to conversation. He placed an arm across his eyes and felt himself sink, soft turf cradling his weary body. The lack of sleep was catching up with him; he felt it now.

  The spring air pranced around them, the breeze whistling as it passed through the shrubbery. Monson heard Artorius and Casey whispering in tones too low for him to pick up exactly what they were saying. He adjusted his shoulders and back, again breathing deeply as his body finally found its groove and relaxed, allowing the gentle sounds of the outdoors to envelop him.

  Monson knew a relaxed body, interestingly enough, was often the scene of a guilty mind. He tried to quiet his thoughts, but every time he thrust one subject from his consciousness, another appeared ready and eager to take its place. Finally, he gave in, allowing pictures, words and analysis to burst through in an absolute cacophony of color, sound and reflection.

  Taris and Cyann, magic and memory, power and prophecy, knowledge and control; every subject assaulted him, cycling through his mind eye’s, each as incomprehensible as the last and just as frustrating as the first. His emotions lurched as he began to sink deeper into his consciousness. He saw his memories play before his eyes as if a movie reel had flipped on in his head. He saw a mountain of reddish-blonde hair flicker in the light as a small hand caught his. The grip of that hand was peculiar; it felt less like a hand than an instrument or tool. He sensed the tool’s precision and efficiency. He felt the act of that hand has it gripped his. An act that had a purpose and an end. Yet to ascertain and understand that end or purpose required an impossible leap. Next he saw the graceful steps of a dark-haired, blue-eyed figure. He had a hard time seeing her properly as she wrapped in the rented fabric of enigma. She moved with fluidity, as if the floor, air and everything around her moved, changed or otherwise transformed just for her. The picture wavered once more and Monson was faced with an image of himself, but this, too, was not as it seemed. The image was disjointed and raw, like its base features had been assembled from different sources. It made him think of a collage, a cut-and-paste conglomeration of hundreds of other images. Monson felt weakened at the site of this person…who he knew was himself. Despair crept over him and started to tighten its grip. Why was the only question that he could ask...

  Though the despair intensified, he was finally able to articulate what he felt. He was bound and gagged, but more than that, felt overwhelmed by the certainty of his powerlessness, which he feared might dominate him forever. He had fallen too deep and was trying to push too hard. He struggled to rip himself from this contemplation but found that his shackles bound him too tightly for him to resist.

  Artorius...Casey...help me! he screamed in his mind.

  More images sprang up. Faces of other friends and family, and a projection of the future, a life not yet lived.

  No…he was not going down like this. He had survived too much and had too much to look forward to just to fall now. He gathered his strength to fight. Wait...what was that?

  A strange light, a warm and inviting glimmer, appeared in the distance beyond his closed eyes. It was small and indistinct…but it was enough. He felt his fetters start to loosen as the light slowly grew. With a sudden surge of resolve, Monson threw them off entirely. Now freed, he felt himself wander almost negligently through the strange light, not knowing the reason for his ease and fascination.

  What was he doing? After all that he had been through, could he really follow through with this? Was he about to fall into a more desperate situation? He did not know what to think but knew stopping was impossible; he had to move.

  Monson almost buckled as pressure built upon him. He felt something within that pressure, but there was no description available to him. Something clicked and Monson instantly became aware of the presence of a consciousness so old and so massive that time itself seemed to be lost in it. Monson felt a change in physical location and remembered his experience with Grayson’s grandfather’s journal only days ago. This change was slower, the surfaces and scenery bubbling and blurring. After either a moment or a lifetime, he found himself on the crag of an unknown mountain, high atop a range stretching into the distance.

  There was nothing familiar about the place. The land was desolate, barren and cold, made even more foreboding by the constant crackle and boom of lighting-filled clouds. There were other sensations also; the dry prickle of the wind, the soothing, misty rain, the earth’s solid musk, and the scorch and overpowering heat of fire. The feelings and sensations were a part of him, essential to him, even—but why? What was he seeing? There was never enough time to ponder these things.

  This overload of sight and sound paled in comparison, however, to the being standing in front of him. He was riveted by the sight of a woman of ethereal beauty, delicate as a spring lily but real as the rock he stood upon. Her silver eyes and silver hair were awe-inspiring; words like “glimmer” or “shimmer” did not do justice to her radiance. Monson instantly recognized the goddess-like creature.

  “Sariah,” he said aloud.

  Sariah moved forward, though he could not really call it walking because she did not appear to touch the ground. She drifted towards a peak that seemed to be the focus of the strange dark land. Monson called out to her, yearning for her attention, but the woman did not seem to be aware of his presence. She shifted in his direction and made visible what previously was not: Sariah held in her hand a blade, a blade forged of Heaven itself. Basking in the purest of white, the hilt and blade glowed with a sort of supernatural luminosity. Monson realized that there was nothing that this blade, this power, could not do. He took a closer look. The blade was dripping. Dripping with crimson. Monson fought the instinct–yes, instinct—to rush to Sariah. Was it her blood? Was she hurt? He would kill them. He would kill whoever had hurt her.

  Sariah spoke unexpectedly. “Marion…it’s…it’s…the rest is….”

  She fell to her knees, exposing a bandage-covered wound. She took in a sharp breath.

  “KELL!”

  An evil laugh barked from all around; a laugh so evil that it seemed to emanate from the devil himself. Monson rushed to Sariah, intending pull her back from whatever brink she was about to cross. His hands went right through her. He tried again and again with nothing to show for it.

  “Damn it!”

  Another burst of laughter sounded, piercing, all-encompassing as it dug at his eardrums; the Darkness spread. Monson was unable to stop himself. He had to look.

  Through bleary eyes he saw...what did he see...a mint tree? Yes, it was a small mint tree; the scent drifted lazily.

  Monson jumped as Marie’s face came into focus. H
e sat bolt upright, all tiredness leaving him. Only then did he realize that she had just been blowing in his face and apparently, she used mint toothpaste.

  “Good morning,” she said with a wide smile. “So glad you are up. Master Grayson had something he wanted to ask you.”

  Monson turned to see Grayson doubled over in laughter, and he was not the only one; Artorius and Casey had also joined in. They continued for a bit, while Monson mused that whatever he had done, it had not warranted this response. Jerks.

  “Are you ever going to wake me up in a normal way?” Monson glowered at the group, slightly irritated. “Would it kill you?”

  Grayson was the quickest to answer.

  “Why would we do that when you provide us with such entertaining reactions?”

  “You people are mean.”

  Grayson ignored him, instead asking, “So what are you all doing up so early? I know you aren’t doing homework.”

  Casey jumped in before Monson could answer. “Oh, it’s nothing exciting. We’re living vicariously through Grey at the moment and he’s in need of emotional support.”

  “Emotional support?” echoed Grayson curiously. He flashed Monson an inquiring look. Casey answered.

  “Well, you wouldn’t think it to look at him, but this guy is actually quite popular with the ladies. I know—who would’ve thought, right? Artorius and I were just trying to make sense of it.”

  “Ah…so you told them about Taris?” Grayson glanced over at Monson. Again Casey cut him off.

  “Actually, I was referring to Cyann, but how do you know about Taris?”

  “Cyann?” Grayson ignored Casey’s question. “What about Cyann? I thought this was Taris’ show.”

  They both looked at Monson.

  “I just realized something,” said Artorius. They all looked at him. “Grey, you really piss me off.”

  They all laughed.

  Marie and Grayson settled in the grassy knoll with them after their bout of merriment. Grayson hated not having information and the latest meeting with Cyann would be no exception.

  Casey gave the run-down of the morning’s events. He was much better at telling stories and this gave Monson another chance to let his mind wander. He tried not to let it drift too far, and eventually returned his attention to his friends in the middle of a heated conversation. Marie and Casey seemed to be arguing about something.

  “I think it’s obvious. He just needs to make a decision as to whom,” Marie said as she stood up next to Grayson.

  “I don’t think it’s to that point yet,” answered Casey with a little shake of his head. “Besides, the rules of storytelling state that you should never resolve a potential love story too early in the plot, especially if the relationship could be crucial later on.”

  “Oh, that is so clichéd! You do not know that either of those relationships will be crucial,” said Marie. “Why not an early resolution, then explore how the couple overcomes obstacles together?”

  “That’s way too deep for a teenage drama,” disagreed Casey, shaking his head. “To execute that sort of love drama a dramatic past is almost a must and that would require…”

  Monson stared as Marie and Casey continued like this for some time. Had he missed something?

  “What in the world are they talking about?” he whispered to Artorius, who was staring at Marie with slack-jawed admiration.

  “Casey’s found a kindred spirit,” Artorius responded without taking his eyes off the girl. “Apparently Marie wants to be a novelist.”

  “Oh.”

  Well, that explained it.

  Casey and Marie’s conversation continued for the better part of an hour. They continued to fervently disagree on the use and purpose of romantic elements in storytelling. Monson wondered, more than once, why he couldn’t have normal friends. Finally they were interrupted when Artorius asked Grayson,

  “What’s the deal with you two? You aren’t like, together, are you?”

  Grayson, in the middle of taking a drink from his water bottle, gagged, causing water to gush out of his nose and mouth. Everyone else fell totally silent. Casey leaned around Marie to see Artorius and Grayson.

  “Arthur, you seriously have no tact,” he said, shaking his head with a laugh. “But now that it’s out there, inquiring minds want to know.”

  Grayson grimaced. He and Monson glanced at each other. Grayson, in a wordless but distinct plea, begged for help. Monson was at a loss.

  “Good morning all,” interrupted a perky voice. They all turned.

  Indigo Harrison and Ignace Ikeco walked up to the group from the direction of the Yard. They were all wearing warm-ups and carrying large backpacks. Marie, who plainly did not appreciate the interruption, gave Indigo and the others a sharp look. Surprisingly enough, Artorius also looked upset.

  Indigo slid in next to Monson. “Fancy running into you all! We have something for each of you.”

  Indigo popped the bag off her shoulder. She pulled out several small boxes and handed one to each of them, except Marie.

  “A gift from Ms. Blake.” Indigo beamed. “Check it out.”

  They all opened their packages.

  Monson did not attempt to conceal his surprise. One of the dolls that he had almost broken in Ms. Blake’s room sat heavily in his hand. Before he could ask, Christy Wayne approached and spotted Casey.

  “Casey, I’ve been looking for you!” Christy rushed over to him, throwing her arms around his waist as she started to whine, “Where have you been all morning?”

  “All morning?” Casey grumbled. “It’s barely past eight. What are you talking about all morning?”

  Christy pouted exaggeratedly. “Someone doesn’t pay attention to their phone.”

  Casey rolled his eyes and tried to engage Artorius, Marie, anyone at all in conversation. This was proving to be quite a feat, however, as Christy was still all over him. Marie was back beside Grayson, who shifted uncomfortably. Monson did not envy him, as he could actually feel Marie’s anger. He made a mental note not to ever trifle with her.

  He looked at Indigo. “So what’s with the dolls?”

  “Apparently it’s a project from Christopher Baroty.” She gazed at the figurine held tightly in Monson’s hand. “He’s opening a new art gallery in Seattle, one of the biggest in the world, and Ms. Blake is one of his up-and-coming artists. The dolls are some sort of promotion. He’s passing them out to students as some sort of marketing stunt.”

  More than an acceptable answer; Baroty seemed like the type to do something jaunty like that.

  The group headed off to The GM, Casey dodging Christy’s attempts at physical displays of affection, Artorius, Indigo and Ignace meandering behind them, giggling, while Grayson and Marie moved forward in silence, hardly looking at one another. Monson walked alone at the front of the pack and arrived at the entrance first.

  “What are you looking so serious about?”

  Monson turned as Indigo slid in next to him for a second time. She tossed her head a bit as she pulled at the hair band around her wrist. “So you didn’t tell me that you and your groupies have taken to spying.”

  “Spying?” questioned Monson in confusion. “What are you talking...?”

  Then he understood.

  “Arthur!” He glared back at Artorius who was deep in conversation with Indigo’s tawny-eyed friend Ignace.

  Artorius turned his head towards Monson. “Yeah Grey, what can—”

  He stopped as he noticed Monson’s expression.

  “I’m sorry!” he exclaimed. “It couldn’t be helped. Her feminine wiles, Grey! She ensnared me! I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You didn’t have a choice?” repeated Monson angrily. “You didn’t have a choice!? How did you not have a choice? What if she tells her sister, moron?”

  Artorius launched a look towards Indigo, who was wearing a sly grin.

  “You wouldn’t tell her, would you?” he pleaded. “I mean, we didn’t mean to spy...we were just there and she h
appened to be having a conversation about Monson while that crackhead Boston was trying to get his game on with—”

  “Boston?” snapped another voice, cutting across Artorius’ babbling explanation. “Boston Timberland?”

  It was Christy and she looked pissed.

  Artorius, taken aback by her sudden change in manner, answered timidly. “Yeah…why?”

  “And with whom was he trying to get his game on?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  Artorius quailed under the girl’s furious look. Then, almost shyly, he gestured towards Indigo. Christy spun on the spot.

  “Whoa, settle down Christy,” Indigo said, quickly understanding Artorius’ implication. “It’s not me; I swear it’s not me.”

  This was going downhill and fast. There was a connection. Boston and Christy had been involved; that was the only possible conclusion. Monson remembered what Boston had said earlier that day. It made him cringe.

  “...now that I have taken care of my little obligation….”

  Obligation, thought Monson. That’s what he was referring to...oh, poor Christy.

  Christy and Indigo, followed closely by Ignace, left not long after that, leaving Monson and the others in their wake. Talk about livid—Monson had never seen a girl as angry as Christy Wayne in the seconds before she left. He suddenly felt sorry for Boston. Then again, Boston probably deserved anything he got.

  The remaining group continued into the main cafeteria. All of them, except Marie who thought it was inappropriate for her to sit with them, sat in a far corner eating in relative silence, each wrapped up in their own issues. It was not until they were leaving that Casey, who had come to the same conclusion as Monson about the whole Boston/Christy thing, started commenting in shocked tones.

  “I just don’t understand,” he said as they exited The GM’s main doors and headed back to the dorms. “So dramatic. Why do people have to be like that?”

  Casey looked like he was really mulling the whole thing over in his head. So much so, he did not see a person approach them from behind.