The House of Grey- Volume 4

by Earl, Collin

  He stopped suddenly when he spotted Taris standing in the shadow of a large weeping willow. He slowed down, taking deep breaths and trying not to appear winded.

  He had made it. What a relief. As Monson hunched over, continuing to try to gain control of his breathing, he looked at Taris’ outfit, hoping he was not underdressed. An instantaneous dual sensation of rising and falling came over him. He could be wearing an Armani three-piece suit and it would not have mattered. Taris looked amazing. A glossy, green dress with spaghetti straps fell to mid-thigh as she stood delicately balanced on three-inch green heels. The ensemble seemed to simmer as the ever-so-elusive sun lit up her figure. She had a thin white cardigan draped over her shoulders and carried a handbag in the same shade of green as her dress. Monson realized that his breath was not lost because of his lack of physical conditioning, but because of a beautiful girl. He slowly stood, straightening up to his full height, and walked towards her. It was at this particular second, however, that he realized she was not alone: Taris Green stood face to face with Damion Peterson.

  Upon seeing this, Monson jumped behind a bush to hide himself from view. But he also hid what was happening from his view. And, Monson realized, he was too far away from them to eavesdrop. Eavesdrop! What was he thinking? Why would he care what they were talking about? Now that he thought about it, why was he hiding in the first place?

  “Monson?”

  He jumped as a calm, steady voice said his name. He paled even before he turned around, since he knew exactly who stood just behind him: Cyann, standing with a thoroughly confused look on her face.

  “This isn’t what it looks like,” said Monson, quickly avoiding her gaze. He noted wryly that Grayson had once caught him a similar situation on the first day of school. What that was a long time ago. He really needed to start paying attention to his surroundings. He would so not last in a war.

  He watched as she answered. “And what do you think it looks like?” Cyann seemed very fidgety, and something was different about her. Maybe it was her hair. He was not quite sure.

  “Good question.” Monson tried to smile. “Why don’t you tell me what it looks like, and then I’ll tell you if you’re right?”

  Monson thought that he almost conjured a smile out of that one. But Cyann masked any reaction to his joke with a quick double take towards Taris and Damion, who seemed to be wrapping up their conversation under the tree.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Monson, trying to change the subject.

  “Off to do a little shopping,” replied Cyann, her eyes back on him. “Are you OK? You look like you’ve had better nights.”

  Understatement of the year, he thought. “Yeah, I didn’t sleep well last night. So, shopping, huh?”

  “Yeah, getting ready for the dance,” said Cyann, betraying nothing in her calm voice. “It should be fun.”

  That did it! What in the world was going on? Why was she behaving so formally? It was as if they had just met. It was so frustrating, and it was about time he said something to her.

  “Cyann, you made it,” said another calm, quiet voice.

  Damion walked up to them, his expression bearing a trace of annoyance. This was odd, considering Damion was about as controlled as they came. He glared at Monson disapprovingly, then glanced at Cyann.

  “Well, are you ready? The train leaves at one thirty. So we’d better go,” he said in a voice that was very different from his usual confident tone.

  Cyann nodded and walked slowly towards Damion, who placed his hand on her back. Monson took a deep breath as he watched them walk away.

  All he could think about was the burn of a knife wound that he was not sure he received in a place where it was unclear if he had been there.

  “Taris!” said Monson aloud as he realized that he was now very late for his date. He spun around, looking for the green-eyed beauty, but saw nothing but the swaying of the tree branches.

  “Crap!” He ran towards The GM not entirely sure what to do, but he thought that would be the most likely place to find her. He was in trouble and he knew it. Why did it turn out like this? Stupid. Monson looked for Taris for at least an hour, roaming the halls and looking in both the Inner Gardens and around some of the more secluded stops. She was not anywhere. Kicking himself, he walked slowly towards The Barracks, all while trying to figure out how he was going to get out of this mess.

  “The Atrium,” said a small voice in the back of his mind.

  “What?” Monson stopped dead in his tracks and spun around on the spot. “Who said that?”

  “Your fairy godmother! Who do you think said it?”

  “Dawn?” Monson again looked around. “No freaking way!”

  “Don’t look around, you fool. I am in your head, remember?”

  “I knew that. So what are you doing?” asked Monson, realizing how dumb he would look if anyone came by while he was seemingly talking to himself.

  “I was telling you where Taris is,” replied Dawn in an irritated voice. “I have to ask you a question. Are you trying to ruin this relationship as well? Stop acting like such a boy.”

  “Shut up!” Monson headed towards the Atrium.

  He hurried to the front doors, slowing his pace as he approached so he could right himself and try to figure out what he was going to say to Taris. Nothing came to mind. He would have to wing it. Bracing himself for a severe scolding, he opened the doors.

  He searched, taking in the expanse of space, and was disappointed when he did not see Taris anywhere.

  “What now, smart guy?” asked Monson quietly.

  “Far corner. I swear, no matter the age, men are always the same,” answered Dawn with a note of amusement. “Now, when talking to women it is important to remember—”

  “I can do this on my own, thanks. By the way, is there any way to turn you off? You’re getting on my nerves.” Maybe that was the key, maybe Monson just had to ask, or maybe it was a figment of his imagination, but with those simple words Dawn was gone.

  What he saw next totally disarmed him. Taris Green, the witty green-eyed beauty, sat in a secluded section of the Atrium crying harder than Monson thought possible. Now he really did not know what to do. He had prepared himself for anger, violence even—but tears? No, that was truly unexpected. He had no idea how to handle tears.

  He stopped as he heard an angry voice. Taris was saying something in between her sobbing; it appeared to be a stream of swear words. Monson cringed as he caught “Stupid idiot, I can’t believe him.” He needed to apologize, but how was he supposed to do that?

  Monson walked forward, about to call out her name when she turned in his direction. Her eyes were red and puffy and her makeup was running all over the place, giving her the appearance of a very upset, slightly deranged clown. She stared at him as if she was waiting for him to say something. Monson tried more than once to do just that, but the words would not come. Taris burst into tears again as she stood and started to run towards him. For a golden fleeting second, Monson saw a glorious vision of Taris crashing into his arms, allowing him to hold her as he wiped away whatever burdens she carried. Yet, like so often happened in life, his dream was very different from reality.

  Taris continued to cry, coming closer and closer to him. Though in reality it all happened quickly, as Monson experienced it at the time, and when he looked back, remembering, the moment she passed him seemed to happen in slow motion. Monson felt the instant they were shoulder to shoulder and the exact sensation of her hand as it brushed his. He felt the dampness of her tears and weary lamentations of her shallow breath. He felt so many things, like the helplessness of his own strange situation and his inability to do a single thing about it. Monson reached out for her, his hand softly grabbing hers. It was to no avail. Her fingers slowly pulled from his grasp, and then she was gone and he was alone.

  “Argh!” He walked slowly towards the center of the Atrium. Why had he not said anything to her? Why had he not stopped her? Why had he not scooped her up in
his arms and told her how sorry he was and that he would never be late again? He let out his own stream of swear words berating himself and his idiotic behavior.

  First Cyann, now Taris. Genius, Grey, absolute genius, he thought.

  He sat down next to the huge fountain of water in the Atrium’s center. He dangled his hand in the water and watched as streams of liquid poured from the various spouts on the fountain. Images of both Taris and Cyann walking away from him played over and over again in his mind, melding with the knowledge that he was unable to stop either of them. Why was this so painful?

  “How can they be so COLD?” Monson shouted as emotion overtook him and strange incoherent images flashed in his mind. Words spilled from his mouth and he closed his eyes as he felt a throbbing beat in his chest like the kick of a revved-up engine.

  Monson punched his hand in the shallow pool of the ornate fountain.

  He felt tension and a numbing flash of pain.

  Monson opened his eyes and quickly recoiled from the water, shocked at the sensation. He pulled and pulled as an unexplainable force gripped him around his arm. Monson looked at the surface of the water only to find a block of frigid ice. He glanced around the whole fountain.

  It was completely frozen.

  The fountain was now a large, elegant ice sculpture. He again turned his eyes to the surface of the ice, where he gazed at a hole in the shape of a fist.

  ***

  “Hey, did you hear what happened in the Atrium?”

  “Yeah! How is that even possible?”

  “Somebody has a weird sense of humor.”

  “I heard it did a ton of damage and that they might have contaminated the water.”

  Monson sat quietly next to Casey during dinner the following evening, half-listening to the chatter of students around them; Artorius was conspicuously absent. Currently, Monson was trying to eat his baked potato while doing his best to control his gag reflex. What had happened in the Atrium was the only question that Monson was able to ask himself. After his “manifestation,” which was the only word he could think of to describe what happened to that fountain, he ran back to his apartment and literally hid in his room like a six-year-old. He was embarrassed, but he was also really scared. He was not sure what he was going to do.

  “Grey, are you OK? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so remorseful.”

  Monson glanced up from his plate of food, a little shocked. It was Grayson.

  “I liked that fountain,” said Monson, thinking quickly. “It was one of my little pleasures. You know? I passed it every day.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Grayson met Monson’s eyes, which forced Monson to turn back towards his plate. “It’s amazing, something like that happening. I wonder how they did it. It’s almost like it was…magic.”

  Monson was proud that he did not flinch. “What do you mean?” he inquired, hoping to keep his voice level. “Why would it be like magic?”

  Grayson started off. “Well first of all, it’s an indoor fountain that was totally frozen over including the piping and internal mechanisms, and as far as I could tell there weren’t any chemicals in the water. I’ve seen something like that before but it’s a process where ice accumulates over time. If you look closely at the fountain, you can see individual droplets of ice—as if someone flipped a switch and froze it. I don’t think there’s anything that could have just made that happen and certainly not without some sort of specialist equipment.”

  “There’s no such thing as magic,” said Monson without looking up from his dinner.

  “There is too such thing as magic!” Grayson spouted angrily.

  Monson stopped staring at his plate and turned, reestablishing eye contact with Grayson as Casey looked on. Grayson glared at him with an expression he had never seen before. The expression spoke of total conviction, absolute certainty. What did Grayson know that Monson did not?

  “There is too such thing as magic.” Grayson shifted his gaze down towards the ground as he wrung his fingers, cracking a few of them. Monson thought this time he almost sounded embarrassed, like he had let something slip, that he had showed just a bit too much.

  Monson had no idea what to say now, a familiar phenomenon for him. Grayson spun his chair around before Monson could find the words.

  He started to roll away. “I’d better go.”

  Monson stood, intending to go after him. Casey caught his arm.

  “Let him go. Let him believe a little longer.”

  Monson sat back down. “Believe a little longer? What does that mean?”

  “Grayson Garrett hasn’t always been in a wheelchair,” said Casey with sadness in his voice. “Not long ago he was quite active. Suffice it to say that you were not the only one here affected by that attack last May.”

  “I don’t understand. What happened to him?”

  “Grayson was near the bridge that day. I’ve never heard it from him, but someone once told me that a chunk of the bridge broadsided his car. I don’t know where the other parties were held, so I’m not sure how far a piece of that bridge would have had to fly to bash a car.”

  “So he wasn’t involved in the original explosion?”

  “No, only the truly elite were celebrating on the roundabout. But the fact that he wasn’t there doesn’t make a lot of sense considering that Grayson’s family owns one of the largest private investigation firms in the world. Anyway, he was at one of the satellite celebrations along the stretch of highway leading to the roundabout. He doesn’t talk about it much, but he was convinced he saw something supernatural that day.”

  “What did you say?” asked Monson sharply.

  “I know, it’s crazy, huh?” continued Casey “Apparently, Grayson said that before his car was hit he saw what he could only assume was a wizard.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, seriously, the story is pretty crazy. It’d make a good movie—and based on what we saw on Gossip Guy, it doesn’t surprise me he thought it was magic. What kind of a weapon can create a whirlwind like that? Anyway, we should ask him at some point; I’d like to know the whole story.”

  “Yeah…” said Monson reflectively. “I may just have to get the full account sometime.”

  “On a totally unrelated topic, how did everything go with Taris yesterday?”

  Monson’s spirits sunk even lower. “Oh that. It was sufficiently horrible; a total disaster, I would say.”

  “Why? What happened?” Casey looked surprised.

  Monson relayed what had happened between him, Cyann, Taris and Damion. As he finished his story, he watched Casey, who continued to look thoughtful.

  “Wow, I don’t even know what to say to that. What are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea.” Monson shrugged. “Who would have thought someone could get that pissed over someone else being late.”

  “Amen to that,” agreed Casey. “Why not ask Cyann? She might have some advice for you. Besides, it’s about time you two work out whatever is going on between you. ”

  “Cyann’s still acting weird.” Monson shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with her. I think she may be on cloud nine with all this Diamond business.”

  “You really are dense, aren’t you?"

  “Me?” retorted Monson defensively. “What about you? I don’t see you taking any big strides. Who are you to criticize?” Monson shifted in his chair to glance towards a table on the far side of the room where Kylie was talking with some friends.

  Casey’s face went white. “There’s no story there! There aren’t any strides to make. We were friends. We aren’t anymore. Why do you keep bringing this up?”

  “You want to make up with her, I know you do. I don’t know why you just don’t call her out and speak to her about what happened.”

  “I think the attack on the bridge addled your brain more than you’re letting on.”

  Monson sighed. “You have no idea.”

  Casey continued, not hearing him. “I couldn
’t do that anyway; there’s too much bad blood. Too much history.”

  “Tell you what,” said Monson, not really thinking about what he was about to say. “I’ll talk to Cyann if you’ll talk to Kylie.”

  The color instantly returned to Casey’s face. He was looking more uncomfortable than Monson could ever remember seeing him.

  “That is impossible. There is no way—”

  “Then be quiet about Cyann.”

  “Fine, but then you have to tell Artorius and me what happened to your hand and why you’ve been acting so weird since yesterday.”

  Monson’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “What? Why is that part of the deal?”

  “Because I just made it part of the deal. Kylie and I have history. I can’t even begin to explain. I have to go through way more than you. This evens out the exchange.”

  Monson looked doubtful.

  “Besides,” continued Casey. “Artorius and I are worried about you.”

  Monson deflated. He had lost this argument. “You’re not going to believe me, but I’ll tell you and Artorius after you talk to Kylie.”

  Monson put out his hand to shake Casey’s. Casey slapped his hand and then went into the weird handshake he exchanged with Artorius, the one that culminated with them smacking their fists together.

  “This is our handshake—the three of us. It’s like a promise among brothers,” intoned Casey with a look so serious it was almost comical. “You break a promise on this shake, I’m going to punch you in the face.”

  “Between brothers, huh?” Monson went over the handshake in his mind. “You too. If you break a promise on this shake I’m going to punch you.”

  “Done,” said Casey with a small smile.

  The two boys sat lost in their thoughts. In that moment, Monson ascended to way beyond cloud nine. Brothers. He did not have any siblings and the only family he had ever known was his grandfather. So the idea of having a brother—two brothers— appealed to him a great deal.