The House of Grey- Volume 4

by Earl, Collin

  “You guys are still eating?”

  Monson, a full cup of juice halfway to his lips, bobbled it in surprise, causing the contents to splash all over his shirt and pants.

  Artorius choked on a laugh. “Oh sorry, dude. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

  “Well, this is the icing on an absolutely wonderful day,” said Monson with heavy sarcasm, mopping up his shirt. “I’m going back to my room, you two. I think I’m going to go to sleep until this semester is over.”

  “Wait!” pleaded Artorius, sounding excited and catching Monson’s arm before he could get up. “Before you go, you gotta hear this.”

  Casey and Monson settled back in their seats, both saying, “What?”

  “I overheard some of the staff discussing what happened to the fountain. They think they know who did it.”

  Monson felt like someone had just kicked him in the crotch.

  Casey sputtered in excitement. “Really, who do they think it is? That’s it! It’s all over! He’s totally gonna get kicked out of school.”

  Artorius leaned in as if sharing some monstrous state secret. “Apparently a single individual was seen leaving The Barracks around the time they think it happened. They’re pretty sure it was him.”

  “Arthur, who is it?”

  Artorius put his hands to his mouth, cupping them around his lips. “Grayson Garrett.”

  ***

  “I have to go.” Monson put down his fork and stood up.

  Artorius and Casey tried to protest. “Wait, Grey….”

  Monson was already out of earshot. He tried not to run. He wanted to, but he did not want to seem suspicious, so he walked as fast as he could through the double doors of the cafeteria. His mind whirled as he moved.

  Grayson was there. He was in the Atrium. Did he see Monson and Taris? Did he see Monson at the fountain? All very important questions. He had to find Grayson.

  Monson burst into a run once he hit the hall outside the double doors. He rounded one of the many corners leading to the master hall of The GM. Unfortunately, he turned the corner a little too sharply and ran headlong into Ms. Miranda Blake.

  Papers, bags and variety of other items scattered into different directions as Ms. Blake let out a scream that probably reached the Roman deities. Monson did not fare any better as he slammed into the stone wall.

  “It is just not my day.” He rubbed his head and then noticed the rumpled form of Ms. Blake slowly stand up, which triggered a stream of apologies from him. He, too, tried to stand but immediately felt dizzy, so he sat back down and closed his eyes again.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Monson again, eyes still closed. “I shouldn’t have been running. I can’t believe I knocked you over.”

  “It’s quite all right. Here, let me help you.” Monson’s lids popped back open. He made eye contact with her as he took her hand. “Ms. Blake, I think you lost one of your contact lenses.” Monson attempted to stand.

  Monson was not sure why, but apparently this revelation was very startling. The second that Ms. Blake realized what Monson had said, she yanked her proffered hand away and covered one of her eyes. This, consequently, caused him to fall back to the ground.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Monson.”

  She again extended her hand.

  Monson ignored the hand, rising on his own. “It’s OK. Can I help you find it?”

  Please say no. Please say no…. Monson waited for her answer.

  “Oh sure, that would be fine, Mr. Grey,” said Ms. Blake offhandedly. Her face abruptly went pale.

  “Wait, no. No, no, no, you can’t help. I don’t want your—! I mean…”—–she took a deep breath—“sorry, I’m so scatterbrained today. Don’t worry about it. You seem to be in a hurry.”

  Relieved and a bit lightheaded, Monson shot her a cocky wink. “You have really pretty eyes, Ms. Blake. It’s a shame you hide the real color.”

  “Yeah, yeah, playboy. Get out of here,” she said with a very girlish smile.

  Monson did as he was told.

  After his mishap with his teacher, Monson tried very hard to control himself while searching for Grayson. The hours between dinner and curfew were particularly difficult ones for a manhunt because of the tendency of students to scatter all over the campus. Like trying to find a needle in a haystack, as stupid as that expression was, so Monson decided to choose a spot and work from there, and the dorms seemed like the most logical place to start.

  He arrived at The Barracks panting, though more from nerves than exhaustion. He made his way through the student entrance to the boy’s dorm and grimaced when he realized that he had no idea where Grayson’s room was.The boy’s dormitory was separated into twelve floors, three floors per grade, with the seniors at the top. That at least was the good news. He was not going to run into Derek or any of his goons while trying to find Grayson.

  He’s probably on one of the first couple of floors. Monson approached a large board labeled “Information” and scanned it in hopes it would yield a more specific location. As he was looking, he remembered how Dawn had been able to tell him exactly where Taris was. He thought he would give it a try.

  “Dawn, are you there?” asked Monson in a quiet voice.

  Nothing happened.

  He repeated himself.

  Again nothing.

  He swore. “Where are you when I need you?”

  Monson heard voices behind him. Spinning on the spot, he saw a couple of boys he recognized from his year. He hurried over to them.

  “Do you guys know what room Grayson Garrett is in?” asked Monson with no preamble.

  The boys all stared with startled expressions, like they could not figure out why he was there. Then, with a slightly blank look, one answered,

  “Kid in the wheelchair, right?” He scratched at the back of his head. “Isn’t he at the end of the hall on Prefecture Two?”

  “Prefecture Two?”

  “Oh yeah, I guess you wouldn’t know,” said the boy, smiling. “The floors are named by Prefecture. Number Two is the second floor. I’m pretty sure he’s at the end of the hall.”

  “Thanks!” Monson shot off racing to the second floor. He found Grayson’s door, which was marked by a nameplate, and knocked.

  “Who is it?” a slightly muffled voice replied.

  “Monson Grey.” He was proud that he was able to maintain a level voice even though his right leg was shaking violently.

  The voice answered, sounding amused. “Oh, Grey! I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Come in.”

  Monson opened the massive door only to have his senses assaulted with a hodgepodge of visual stimulation. It was quite obvious that Grayson Garrett lived alone. Posters, tons of them, covered the apartment depicting everything from 1920s literary classics to the latest supermarket-checkout romance novel. It was bizarre.

  The door opened into an expansive hallway that separated the bedroom and bathroom from the living area. In addition to the posters, fantasy and sci-fi books of littered the floor, bookshelves, tables and every other surface, taking up residence on the one television in the room and dominating much of the counter space. Grayson was sitting at a workstation in front of a very expensive-looking computer, smiling in a disturbingly calm way. Charts, graphs, maps and other empirical data filled the immediate space to his left and right. On the computer screen in front of him, a math calculation of some sort scrolled across the screen. It was apparently fairly important; Grayson’s eyes darted back to it every few seconds.

  Monson moved to the center of the room, which appeared to have been modeled after the headquarters of a mad genius or intelligence agency, and found that he was, once more, at a loss for words.

  “Welcome, Grey. What can I do ya for?” inquired Grayson.

  “I’m not totally sure at this point,” replied Monson in awe. “Have you read all these?”

  He pointed at the stacks of books scattered around the room.

  “Most of ‘em.” Grayson pulled off a pair of headphones a
nd spun his chair around. “There are a few that I haven’t read, but it’s OK. When I have more time I’ll get to them.”

  “You’re really busy then?” asked Monson, examining all the graphs and papers around Grayson’s desk.” He answered his own question. “Yeah, I can imagine you are busy with all…this.” He pointed around the room. “What exactly are you trying to do?” Monson knew that he was stalling. He was actually interested in Grayson’s collection of stuff and not exactly keen on discussing his activities in the Atrium.

  Grayson’s smile widened. “With what? The books, or the charts and other stuff?”

  “Why don’t we start with the books…”

  Grayson nodded. “Oh, that one is easy—I’m trying to find truth through one of the most telling means, by applying a research method which is both insightful and intrusive.”

  “Sounds complicated,” said Monson hoping Grayson wouldn’t get too technical. He quickly glanced around at the various books and pop culture paraphernalia. “What about the charts?”

  “Now that’s really interesting. With those and most of the other stuff here, I’ve been trying to verify the existence of an individual who I’m sure is real and whom our very lives may revolve around.”

  Monson cocked the eyebrow. “Yeah, I heard about what happened to you last May. I was there too, though I don’t remember much of what happened. So I guess I kind of know where you’re coming from.”

  “Oh, do you? Why do you say that?”

  “I’ve been looking for answers since the day I woke up in a hospital with scars all over my body and a large part of my memory missing. I have skills I can’t explain and I know things that I can’t explain. Not to mention all the weird dreams about creepy individuals.”

  What in the world? Why was he telling Grayson all this?

  “Now I feel like I’ve slipped into some kind of alternate reality where I’m looking for something that doesn’t exist. If you’re searching for reasons and explanations for unbelievable events, then yeah, I know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you misunderstand, Monson.” Grayson’s smile was gentle, almost comforting. “I’m not looking for closure or anything of that nature. What happened at Baroty Bridge was one of the best moments of my life. All because I found you. The gods’ legacy confirmed. This injury is just the price of my research.”

  Monson’s jaw dropped. “What did you say?”

  Grayson cocked his own eyebrow, copying Monson. “What? Didn’t you hear me?”

  “No, I heard you. I just wanted to make sure I heard what I think I heard. Did you say the gods’ legacy?”

  “Yes, yes I did.”

  “You’re gonna have to explain that one.”

  Grayson laughed—hard—though for the life of him, Monson could not see what was so funny about the situation. He wiped a tear from his eye and looked at Monson.

  “Mr. Grey, I am not who you think I am. I think it’s time for you and I to have a little heart-to-heart talk.”

  It was then that Monson noticed: Grayson’s accent. It was gone.

  Monson answered defensively. “About what?" Grayson’s tone had changed, and Monson was not sure that he liked it.

  “About a legend of a being. A being of races and people. A being created of Seven Bloods, sent to save the worlds. Grayson wheeled over to his table and cleared a space. “Basically, Monson, I’m going to tell you a story…a story about you.”

  Chapter 43 - HUMANE

  Monson exerted all his willpower to remain calm. “Grayson, who are you and what happened to your accent?”

  Grayson answered slyly. “That’s right, I haven’t properly introduced myself, have I? My name is Grayson G. Garrett, and I am an Apprentice for H.U.M.A.N.E, one of the few organizations on this great big old blue world of ours that knows about magic and has the ability to use it. My code name is Ender, and it’s nice to meet you in my official capacity as liaison.”

  Monson cocked an eyebrow. “Huh?”

  “I’m greeting you.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s proper.”

  “If you say so,” said Monson, confused. “What’s an Ender?”

  The smile vanished from Grayson’s face. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No….”

  Grayson gripped the wheels of his chair, pivoting it towards one of the many bookshelves. Scanning the contents of the shelf, he settled on a small paperback, pulled it out with a jerk, and tossed it to Monson.

  “So that we don’t have any confusion in the future.”

  Monson surveyed the title. “Ender’s Game?”

  Grayson grinned. “Just think of me as Ender.”

  Monson tucked the book in his back pocket. “Right…but back to the topic at hand. You’re part of some secret organization?”

  “Correct.”

  “A secret organization that uses ‘magic.’ I didn’t mishear?”

  “Also correct.”

  “And you are here at Coren because you think I’m some sort of chosen one?”

  “Yes, that is all correct.”

  “So why were you such a tool when I first met you.”

  “Excellent question. Simple really. I was trying to maintain my distance to observe.”

  “But you don’t think that is necessary anymore.”

  “Again correct.”

  “And why do you think I’m this chosen one?”

  “Now that is an excellent question.” Grayson wheeled over to his counter, maneuvering to grab a set of teacups. Next, he touched a black dispenser, which Monson could only assume was hot water, and placed some tea bags in the cups. He filled the cups with steaming liquid and moved back towards Monson.

  “To answer you, the organization isn’t totally positive you really are our Chosen One, because the ancient texts aren’t exactly clear on the issue. But we do think that you’re the link to the Chosen One and the world of the Others that we’ve been looking for. If that is the case, then there is much work to be done.”

  Monson’s lip curled skeptically. “So I’m not the Chosen One, then?”

  “Oh, you very well could be.”

  “I could be?” Monson sighed. “OK, what’s this ‘world’ business? You said that this ‘Being of Seven Bloods’ is supposed to save ‘the world.’ What does that mean?”

  Grayson affixed a supercilious grin to his face.

  Monson replied with a cynical glare. “You don’t know that either?”

  Grayson answered, clearly annoyed. “The Chosen One is supposed to save worlds, not world. That’s something else we aren’t exactly clear on. The text clearly says ‘worlds,’ but we aren’t sure if that was intended metaphorically or not.”

  “That’s comforting.” Monson pressed his lips together in irritation. “OK, instead of me just asking questions blindly, why don’t you tell me what you do know?”

  “We know this,” Grayson pushed a sketchpad across the table. He nodded towards it, indicating that Monson should open the book.

  “It’s true that I was also at the bridge that day, but being ‘sensitive,’ everything I saw was much different than what got reported in the papers.”

  The pad already open, Monson scrutinized a pencil-drawing depiction of a long stretch of bridged roadway. The drawing’s projection provided a striking amount of detail and gave the impression to the viewer of gazing into the horizon. Monson placed the book back on the table to examine it more closely.

  The picture illustrated a horrific scene. Dozens of bodies of men and women lay scattered along the roadside in the various stages of death. Demonic winged apparitions, suspended in midair, prodded the dead or dying with wicked poleax-like weapons that were borderline fantastical in their construction. In the very center of the page, but off in the distance, a single individual stood with wiggled lines radiating from him. The drawing was absolutely fascinating but hardly helpful. Monson ran a finger touching the single individual lightly.

  “This is wonderful, Gray
son but—”

  “I know,” interjected Grayson respectfully. “That’s not what you really needed to see. It’s for background purposes; turn the page.”

  Monson did so, squinting his eyes at a different viewpoint. This picture provided a sideways panorama of a massive floating bridge with odd lines streaming from the exact center of the picture. The lines flowed from the center, ripping through tiny but distinct cars, railings and people. Close to the center of the picture and the origin of the lines, Monson noticed chunks of steel and cement hanging in midair.

  He flipped the page again. Yet another scene of the bridge’s destruction, but farther along in the process; much larger pieces and objects fell from the bridge as the lines, which Monson guessed were some sort of unearthly energy flow, lengthened, widened and sprawled, engulfing everything in its power.

  Monson turned to the final page of the sketchpad. The last drawing showed a landscape version of a once-mighty structure. All appeared serene except for a single droplet, a small speck seen in the distance, dropping into the water below. The speck, despite its lack of size, was clearly the focus of this final panel. Monson shifted his eyes back to Grayson.

  “What is this?”

  “A clearer view of the events of Baroty Bridge,” answered Grayson quietly. “Whatever happened on that bridge that day was not something scientific in nature. Well, not scientific in the way humans understand it.”

  Monson slid the book back to Grayson. “Why do you say that?”

  Grayson opened the book and pointed to the first picture. “Do you see these lines, the ones that are ripping up the bridge?”

  Monson nodded.

  “Now think back, have you ever heard of anything that describes this type of phenomenon to the public?”

  “No, definitely not. But then again advanced unidentifiable scientific phe-nom-e-non doesn’t show up much on YouTube.”

  Grayson scowled.

  Monson sat back in his chair mulling it over. He considered Grayson’s question. Why indeed was he just now hearing about these destructive lines? There had been no reports about a weird energy source; actually, all the experts agreed that the bridge blew from underneath and that the destruction to the underlying foundation was the reason for its collapse. But where did they come up with that conclusion? Seemed odd in the light of what Grayson was sharing with him. Monson snapped his fingers as the image of Casey popped into his head.