The House of Grey- Volume 3

by Earl, Collin

“What makes you so sure?”

  Grayson’s answer made the hairs on Monson’s head stand on end. “I’ve met Guy Harrison. Trust me. No one-and I mean no one-in their right mind or otherwise would try to kidnap those girls. A lot more trouble than it would be worth.”

  Monson cocked an eyebrow. “He’s that scary?”

  “No.” Grayson shook his his index finger. “He’s even worse.”

  “Then if wasn’t Cyann, who was it?”

  Artorius stepped into the conversation. “I think I might be able to answer that question.”

  He showed them the web page currently loading on his phone’s browser. “This was just updated on Gossip Guy.”

  Casey squinted at the screen, “RSS feeds, gotta love ‘em.”

  The first picture loaded and depicted a bruised and contorted mess. IVs, bandages, and people blocked most of the obviously severely injured person. The second picture was a profile of a heavily damaged, black-and-blue face. Dark hair caked with blood fell messily around the bandages. The boys stared at the picture.

  Casey posed the question. “Why would Gossip Guy be reporting on-”

  He trailed off as Artorius scrolled to show him the headline: “Damion ‘The Diamond’ Peterson ATTACKED!”

  Chapter 32 – Confusion

  “Who on earth would attack the Diamond?” asked Molly through a dropped jaw. They were all back in Monson’s apartment. Casey, Artorius and Monson sat opposite of Molly and Brian, who were listening politely as Casey relayed the events of that morning. Neither Molly nor Brian appeared shocked at hearing the news of the MIB, but astonishment spread across both their faces the moment Artorius mentioned Damion.

  “I know Damion Peterson. We met when Monson won his scholarship. He’s a very sweet boy. I can’t image anyone wanting to hurt him.”

  “You think that’s bad, check this out.” Casey showed Molly his phone.

  “What is that?”

  Casey pulled back his arm and looked at the screen of his Blackberry Storm. “It’s the Horum Vir’s private weight room. It’s where Damion works out.”

  “But how did-”

  “It become scaled version of World War Three?”

  Molly nodded.

  “No one knows, but I’m guessing it was a group of people with really big sledgehammers. No one person could have done that much damage. Just look at the gouges in the walls.”

  Monson’s ears closed off.

  No one person could have done that much damage. That was probably correct. But one mentally broken person with a bone to pick probably could…and probably did.

  The weight room-it was real. Hhe had been there; now he was sure of it. But then where was the hole in chest from the gleaming knife? He had not removed himself from the premises. At least not that he could remember. How much of that dream had been real? How much was a nightmare? And how did he cause so much destruction? He did not understand.

  “I wonder when all this happened?” Casey put down in his phone and threw his arms behind his head, lacing his fingers. He settled back in his chair. “Grey and I were in that area just yesterday. We ended up around there and I slipped off when...I saw someone.”

  The look on Casey’s face made it clear he didn’t want to talk about it. Casey turned to Monson.

  “Monson, those directions that Damion gave you…those weren’t to the Horum Vir’s weight room, were they?”

  Monson’s face burned red hot. He had one chance to get this right.

  “I don’t know,” he lied. “I didn’t find any weight room. I ended up in the back of the Yard’s main complex after a detour to the Battleground’s main field.”

  “The Battleground’s main field? Grey, are you confusing the Battleground with the Training Ground? Lets back up and make sure we are on the same page. The whole complex is nicknamed the Yard, the main football arena the Battleground and the gyms, pools and general locker rooms the Training Ground.”

  Monson kicked himself. He always got all the nicknames confused. “Yeah, sorry, I always get those confused. I meandered around the Training Grounds back rooms for a while then ended up behind the expanse of the Yard where I sat down under a tree. Next thing I know, I was out like a light. I was still pretty wiped from the game and…well, you know.”

  Monson attempted to keep his expression passive while scanning their faces. Were they buying it?

  Casey spoke first. “Well, I was back there right around the time of the attack and I don’t how it could have happened without me or anyone else hearing anything.”

  “You were in the area looking for a weight room that’s supposed to be for the Horum Vir? And Damion was in there?” Molly sat up a little straighter and sounded a bit on the indignant side.

  Casey scowled. “We never said he was looking for the weight room.”

  Molly ignored him. “And why is Damion using your weight room, Monson?”

  Monson scowled at her. “Probably because he can actually take advantage of it and I didn’t even know it existed until I saw it with…I mean until I saw those pictures this morning.”

  He choked back the words, glancing around at the others. Luckily, they did not seem to notice. Monson did his best to remain calm. He had almost made a critical slip. He needed time to think, to mull this over-and he needed to keep his mouth shut until then. He laughed to himself ironically. So much for being honest.

  To his immense relief, Casey cut in right after him. “Molly, before we get any further into this subject, we have a few questions for you.”

  Molly unconcernedly took a sip of tea. “What do you mean, Cassius?”

  “I think you know exactly what I mean. The ‘suits’ we saw earlier at The GM-neither you nor Brian seemed surprised.”

  “And what about them?” She put down her teacup and saucer. “I told you someone important may be coming in the next few days.”

  “True,” replied Casey. “But you didn’t tell us who.”

  Molly gave Casey a playful, albeit forced wink. “And spoil the surprise? Not on your life.”

  “You’re really not going to tell us?”

  “I would like to, Cassius,” lamented Molly. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to let you know right now. I don’t want to cause an uproar if I don’t have to.”

  “An uproar? Who on earth could possibly cause such an uproar at this school? I mean, look who we have here already! The Diamond, Taris Green, members of both N’Sync 2 and Backstreet Boys Reborn all go to school here, and I’m just getting started. Basically, this place has more teen stars than the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Unless it’s God himself making an appearance, you’ve got a tough crowd here.”

  “I don’t know if your analogy really drives home your point, Case, I can’t think of a single teen on the Walk of Fame let alone many.” interrupted Artorius thoughtfully. “Maybe you should have said something like ‘more stars than the Milky Way,’ he added. Monson, despite his current torrent of heavy emotion, chuckled. At least he could always count on his habit of laughing at inappropriate times.

  Casey’s words were venomous. “Arthur, you are so not helping.”

  “How many times do I have to ask you-”

  The sultry timbre of spa music blared from Molly’s phone and swallowed the remaining catchphrase. She threw the phone up to her ear. “This is Molly…yes-no.” She paused as chattering was audible from her phone. Her visage sharply changed. “You’ve got to be kidding me-still? You must be joking-”

  Molly’s expression soured as she started to stand. Scanning the upturned faces of the curious boys, she said into the phone, “Hold on, I’ll be there momentarily.”

  Monson started to protest. He did not want Molly to leave quite yet. She stopped him even before he could voice his objection.

  “I’ll be back soon, Monson honey.” She gestured to the phone. “But I have to take care of this before it starts to get out of hand.”

  With that, she left. Monson slumped further into his chair.

  “
You must really want to talk about this Damion thing, huh Grey? You know that’s sort of surprising considering everything you just found out.”

  Monson centered his attention on Casey. “Yeah, maybe I just want to get my mind off it.”

  Artorius let out a weary breath. “I don’t blame you. The Diamond is thrashed, the info about Baroty Bridge is bursting at the seams, you’re hooking up with Harrison, and campus has more suits than Capitol Hill.” Artorius gave Casey an unexpected, outrageously cocky grin. “See-that’s how you make a comparison.”

  “You aren’t serious! My analogy was WAY better than yours.”

  “Than, your analogy was way better THAN mine.”

  “You’re aren’t serious. Than with an “a” and Then with an “e” sound exactly the same.”

  “Yet you still screw it up.”

  “I’m going to hit you, Arthur.”

  Monson laughed again and was comforted to know that he was not the only one who used humor to deal with stressful situations.

  Monson settled in to watch the show.

  ***

  The rolling credits of their third three-hour movie marked the end of a truly epic experience: They were finally through the Fantasy phase of their marathon.

  Monson scanned the quickly darkening room. Casey and Artorius were both fast asleep. For a devious moment Monson considered dumping ice-cold water on both of them. He would probably receive a good beating for it, but really, it might be worth it. He was reluctant to wake them, however. It was nice to have some alone time and enjoy the peace and quiet. He needed time with his thoughts and now was as good a time as any.

  He meandered around the apartment engaging in various pursuits. He tried reading, playing with Artorius’ portable game console, surfing the Internet, and even considered returning to the crazy poetry he encountered on his first day at Coren, going so far as to pull the still-dusty tin from its hiding place. At the last moment, however, he stopped himself. More weird gibberish probably would not help. He sneered, extremely irritated. Nothing was working! He simply could not make any sense out of his current predicament. What was worse, he did not even know what question to ask, let alone where to find the answer. He tossed the tin in frustration. It landed on the far side of his bed and rang as it struck something solid.

  His irritation succumbed to curiosity. He walked to the other side of the bed and found-

  “My bokken?” He instinctively glanced around the room as if searching for someone.

  He could not remember leaving the mock weapon there, but then again he was quickly-he stopped himself mid-thought. That line of reasoning was rapidly becoming something of a habit for him. He decided that he had left it on his bed and forgotten about it. No weird connotations, no spooky dreams or crazy voices; he had just forgotten. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

  He removed the sword from his bed, pulling the cord of the purple drawstring bag. He slid the bokken out of the pouch and took up the handle; a very familiar feeling overtook him with the touch of the cool, hard wood.

  The feeling of nostalgia in place, he gripped the bokken in a double-fisted hold and took a couple of practice swings.

  He thought of Artorius’ instruction.

  “Footwork Grey! Watch your footwork!”

  Monson glided with ease as he parried a blow from an invisible, imaginary attacker. The faceless swordsman countered with a downward two-handed cleave. Monson dodged and re-posed, sweeping his blade at the neck of his attacker. Unfortunately, he had fallen a bit too heavily into his fantasy world and was again unaware of his surroundings. But a sudden impact and a loud crack penetrated that fantasy and sent his sword from his hand. Slightly distraught, he examined the left post at the foot of his four-poster bed and found a large indentation.

  He glared at the mar in the wood. Yeah…he had just lost to a bedpost.

  “Well played, you win this round.”

  He laughed at his own joke and found that his heart was feeling much lighter and his mind a great deal clearer. He made the choice in an instant; it was time to go and practice some fencing.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, Monson was in the shadow of The Barracks, its massive backyard. He rarely came to this place since it served as a gathering spot for students. He tended to avoid the crowds, but no problem with that today. The murkiness of the impending evening and the ordered lockdown issued by Mr. Gatt seemed to have kept students indoors, most without complaint. He put down his stuff at one of the covered picnic tables near the edge of The Barracks, wanting to keep his stuff dry, as it looked like it was probably going to rain. He opened his backpack and pulled out a notebook. Flipping through it, he found what he was searching for. Notes, and lots of them, sat on the pages of the notebook. These writings detailed concepts and distinctions from both Casey and Artorius’ vast knowledge of different fighting styles and forms, mostly fencing techniques from Artorius and hand-to-hand stuff from Casey. Monson tried to take it all in.

  In the short time he had studied, Monson found he much preferred fencing to the hand-to-to hand stuff. Fencing was lots of fun and something he was gaining proficiency at, although slowly.

  Monson turned a page in his notebook. The move he was currently working on was one that he had merely watched Artorius do. The Four Points was an attacking maneuver that struck four of the nine strike zones on the body, almost simultaneously. These points, located on the head, shoulders, arms, chest, stomach and legs, gave the attacker primary target points to hit, almost all of which were totally incapacitating. Monson’s version of the maneuver aimed for the shoulders, chest and head, those being, in his opinion, the most obvious strike points to use. His movement consisted of two standard slashing moves followed up with two thrusts. It was pretty good in his opinion, but he still could not seem to make his strikes fast enough, no matter how hard he tried.

  Reading through his notes made him laugh as he thought about how flustered he had been during the first weeks of explanation and drilling, not so long ago. There was so much to know and so many things to learn. It was all bit overwhelming. Taking pity on him, Artorius had explained that no matter what the technique or style, he would be able to break it down if he understood one very important thing. There were only nine real strike zones on the body. That’s it. Only nine. If one understood this, one could also understand that regardless of the move, whether it be thrust, cleave or slash, the opponent would attack one of those areas. To break down an attack and therefore counter it was to understand what area was being attacked and with what move. Monson reveled in that information, which made breaking down moves surprisingly easy. He could do this, he could learn, and he was starting to, slowly but surely.

  He set the notebook down and walked a ways off from the picnic table. He pulled out his phone, plugged in his earbuds, and scrolled through song titles, most of which he did not recognize. Casey had loaded a lot of his music on his phone since Monson did not own any or really have much of a preference. He settled on an instrumental piece called “Equilibrium” and started into some stretching.

  The prancing patter of hair-prickling piano drew him in as he moved to some very basic movements. As the tempo quickened, so did his swaying motions. He allowed his wandering mind to follow and felt his heart lighten ever so slightly. It was time to ponder and reflect, and out here alone, surrounded by the fresh air and piney woods, he finally felt able to do so.

  The smooth, rich sounds of a violin joined the piano in harmony as he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The fusion of the piano and violin molded its beauty into his weary and defeated core, intensifying the already growing peaceful feeling. He pushed his concentration further into the complicated construct of chords and scales, falling into the rhythm of the piece as the notes climbed and fell in symphonic unity. As he delved deeper into the music, he saw that there was almost a story in and of itself streaming through the lines of interwoven melodies. It was as if the piano and violin were struggling for supremac
y, albeit subtly, yet seemed to always remain perfectly within the borders of propriety. They fought back and forth, each line of music careening as their pace and emphasis broadened. Each instrument became bolder and fiercer, taking its sounds to loftier heights all while striving to overcome its counterpart. One, then the other, louder and strong-

  Monson stopped dead in his tracks, letting the unfinished form of the Ja-no’s Center Step stutter and fall. That was it. He was like the music. Two pieces of his inner self were fighting for dominance. Neither could truly gain absolute dominance, as to do so would have some horrible and unfortunate effect. Like him, if the piano were-another change in the flow of the music catalyzed a detour in his thought process. A new instrument stormed the melodic battlefield, interjecting itself into the introspective sonata. It felt like an invader, someone or something that was not supposed to be there.

  Monson cleared his mind. Where were these thoughts coming from? Could there really be an instrument in a musical piece that was not supposed to be there? He closed his eyes, sinking his mind into the music again. What could the music tell him? What was he going to do?

  At once, he opened his eyes, saving himself the trouble of answering his own question.

  Monson stared into the face of his unscarred countenance.

  Strangely enough, he was not surprised in the least to see the figure standing before him. It was as if he had always known that this is where he would end up: alone facing himself. Facing himself? He sounded like some stupid self-help book. He steadied his trembling hand as he asked the question that was burning a hole within his gut.

  “Did you attack the Diamond?”

  Monson’s doppelganger stared right through him, giving no response or indication that he or it or whatever the heck it was had even heard him.

  Monson peered inquisitively. “Why aren’t you answering me? You were all ready and itching to talk to me before.”

  The figure opposite him again said nothing and stood perfectly still, but did close his eyes. He gave off an almost passive aura. Monson scanned his face of his replica, until a dramatic shift in the air around it forced Monson to shrink back. The pulse of an overwhelming blood lust strengthened inside of him, steadily thickening like the drum of an overeager heartbeat. He blinked as all the mundane sounds around him faded, leaving only the throb of a deadly song. When he opened his eyes, his lifelike twin still stood inches from him and stared at him, but with eyes that were unlike his own.