The House of Grey- Volume 3 Page 2

  Monson put a hand to this forehead. “Arthur, you make my head hurt.”

  The boys bobbed and weaved in and out of students, spectators, paparazzi, news crews and an array of locals from inside and outside the valley. Monson was suddenly pleased that he was wearing a hoody; the wind was unusually strong for the valley, kicking up dirt and debris from the game. But that wasn’t the only reason he was happy about his attire. Paparazzi were lingering, probably hoping for photographs or an off-kilter interview with Coren’s stars. Monson didn’t consider himself to be among them, but he was glad he could hide his face, just in case someone else did.

  Suddenly a chill ran up Monson’s back, like the streak of a cold finger up and down his spine.

  Artorius spoke from what sounded like a great distance. His voice echoed. Then a scream pierced Monson’s ears, his mind, with two words:

  Watch out!

  Monson froze, unable to move his legs, his breath lost in his chest. Danger. He was in danger.

  Screeching tires, wails from the crowd, and the steady rising hum of an engine. Lights bore down on him like the god of death himself was coming for him-and he was on wheels.

  A blur of movement, a flash of fire red, and two hands touching his chest-Monson’s body was lifted off the ground and thrown. He felt the impact, but no pain. A car raced right by Monson, in which moment, he caught a glimpse of the person driving. A second impact, this one much louder, reverberated like a sound in the woods never should. Monson watched as a tall red-headed boy flew, seemingly in slow motion, up and over the hood of the car. Monson realized that Arthur Pain…Arthur…had been hit by the car.

  Monson attempted to get up, but his body burned. An intense desire to close his eyes overtook him…he was so tired. He closed his eyes and knew no more.

  Chapter 26 – Cursed

  Monson’s head was splitting, which helped him form two conclusions: One, he wasn’t dead, which was a pity because that meant he was probably in the hospital…again. Two, something smelled nice enough that it seemed worth opening his eyes.

  “Welcome to the land of the living. How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Casey was right up in Monson’s face. He was eating a stick of bacon.

  “Dude, where am I? And you’re not holding up any. Why are you eating bacon?”

  “You’re in the campus hospital, of course I’m not holding up any fingers-who actually holds up fingers?-and I’m eating bacon because it’s bacon. Are you still messed up from the drugs? Because that is an incredibly stupid question. Why does anyone eat bacon?”

  “I’m in the hospital, but how did I get-” Monson broke off. It came back to him: the game, his weird conversations with Cyann and Damion, and walking through the parking lot with Casey and Artorius. Artorius…. He remembered screams, screeching tires and-

  “Artorius!” Monson sat up and tried to get out of bed, only to realize that he was hooked up to an IV. Monson looked down at his arm. “Seriously?”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “It was mine, actually.” Mr. Gatt walked in, followed by Brian and Artorius.

  “Arthur!” Monson ran over to Artorius, pulling the IV stand along with him. He threw his arms around Artorius. “You’re all right? You didn’t get hit?”

  “Grey!” Artorius appeared embarrassed. “Get a grip. I’m fine. I got a little banged up, that’s all.”

  Casey yawned. “He really is, Grey. Arthur has always been resilient. You should be far more worried about the guy who almost hit you.”

  Casey lowered his voice. “And his car. I always said that Arthur’s oversized girth would be a problem. He basically broke that guy’s Ferrari.”

  Artorius popped Casey over the head. “I don’t have ‘girth.’ That makes me sound like I’m some sort of blob.”

  Casey started whistling in a I’m-not-going-to-say-anything fashion. Artorius adopted his classic scowl, and Brian and Mr. Gatt laughed.

  Brian made his way over to Monson. “You seem to have a knack for near-death experiences, Master Grey.”

  Monson, wanting Casey and Artorius to stop their argument, made a show of settling himself back in his bed, while smiling at Brian’s comment. “Don’t I know it. Between the happenings at Baroty Bridge, a massive statue almost falling on my head, and just about getting creamed by a runaway Ferrari, you’d think someone had it out for me. “

  Casey raised his hands. “Now I know that death is bad. I get that. But if you’ve got to go, death by Ferrari ain’t a bad way.”

  “Cassius!” exclaimed Brian. “Now that is incredibly insensitive.”

  “I don’t know about that, Brian.” Monson pulled up his blanket. “Casey’s got a point. Everyone’s going to go sooner or later. Death by Ferrari…it could be a lot worse.”

  “Yeah,” added Artorius, “like death by hybrid. I can’t think of a worse way to die.”

  “A hybrid couldn’t kill you, Arthur,” Monson assured him. “You’ve got too much girth. I thought we went over that already.”

  “Oh snap!” yelled Casey.

  Brian and Mr. Gatt tried not to laugh, but Monson and Casey had no such inhibition. They let loose and eventually even Artorius laughed.

  “It’s good to see you in such good spirits, Monson.” Mr. Gatt walked to Monson’s bedside. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like a train hit me, now that you mention it.”

  Casey pointed at Artorius. “Well, in a way, a train kind of did. A giant red-headed train with bad breath”

  Artorius shrugged then glared.

  Monson smiled at this. “I guess I’m not really sure what happened. What’s going on with the guy who almost hit me?”

  “He’s in custody,” responded Mr. Gatt.

  Monson sat up. “Like jail? Why would he be in jail? It was an accident, right?”

  “Well, he did hit Artorius.” Casey picked at a fingernail. “He almost hit you. And he plowed into another car. I think the police thought he was drunk. They were on him like a fat man on a Twinkie right after he hit Artorius.”

  “So had he been drinking?” asked Monson

  Casey shrugged. “I’ve got no idea. You’d have to ask-”

  “He wasn’t,” interrupted Mr. Gatt. “They figured out very quickly that he wasn’t drinking.”

  “How do you know, Mr. Gatt?” Artorius asked.

  “I happen to be well-acquainted with the county magistrate and he relayed the results of the man’s blood test to me.”

  Artorius leaned towards Casey. “What’s a magistrate?”

  Casey shrugged. “I’m pretty sure it’s old man for ‘cop,’ but I can’t be positive. Keep listening-you might be able to figure it out from the context.”

  Mr. Gatt ignored them. “Anyway, Deputy Craig said they were going to keep him for observation until his family flies in.”

  Monson posed the question. “Any why would his family need to fly in? Do they need to bail him out or something?”

  “No, Mr. Grey, though considering the circumstances that’s not a bad guess. I need to clarify that the young man is in custody, not jail.”

  Monson scratched his head. “Isn’t that where they take you when you’re in custody-to jail?’

  Mr. Gatt nodded. “Yes, if you’re conscious. To answer your question, the reason the man’s family has to come out is that he was found unconscious at the scene. He hasn’t woken up since.”

  Monson did not like the sound of that. “Mr. Gatt…does that mean what I think it means?”

  Mr. Gatt nodded. “Yes, he is brain-dead.”

  ***

  Monson was forced to spend most of his next week in the campus hospital, leaving only to attend some of the more important classes. Partly because he had now suffered three near-fatal accidents in the last six months (Monson thought this had to be some sort of record), and they wanted to monitor his mental health. Monson was forced to endure hour-long head-shrinking sessions with a specialist from Seattle flown in specifically to determine
whether Monson was off his rocker. The whole thing was completely idiotic. The doctor wanted to talk about his grandfather and his past so much that Monson wondered if he was really a psychiatrist and not some fool trying to get details in order to write a book about Baroty Bridge. Monson couldn’t share what he couldn’t remember, but had some fun feeding stories to the psychiatrist, most of which ended with him decapitating someone. It took the poor guy three days to figure out what Monson was doing. He stopped coming after that.

  Not that the hospital was all bad. The school provided Monson with a massage therapist and aromatherapy adviser, both of whom were insanely hot and had no idea that Monson was the Horum Vir and the sole survivor of Baroty Bridge. These things greatly endeared them to Monson, despite the fact that both ladies were a little dim. They chattered constantly, telling wild stories and sharing their plans to join up with a cruise ship in the summer. Apparently they dug the ocean.

  On the morning of the second day in the hospital, Monson awoke to singing, the tones familiar and warm, but at the same time sorrowful. When Monson convinced himself to actually open his eyes, he saw no one, and nothing was out of place. He had almost convinced himself that the song was merely in his head until he saw a single blue rose on a tray next to his bed. The rose was beyond striking; such a cool yet vibrant color. Monson spent most of the day gazing at it, which, together with the song brought to his mind images that rose up from deep within him…mountains, clouds and singing…lots of singing. The intensity of the images eventually made his head hurt and his chest burn until he was able to push them from his mind.

  On the fourth day, the driver of the Ferrari died from “causes unknown.” There was all sort of hoopla in the media, which thankfully left out Monson’s name. The driver, a Coren alumnus named Robert Fairal, had no drugs or alcohol in his system, no known illnesses, and, according to witnesses, was behaving normally minutes before he got into his vehicle on the night in question. Strangest of all, the doctors at the hospital found no underlying reason for his death, there wasn’t even any real trauma from the two impacts, no bruising or bleeding, nothing at all to explain it. Very odd indeed.

  Coach Able visited Monson on the fifth day. Monson had to spend an awkward hour and a half telling the coach he didn’t want to play football again and that his run was a fluke. That was not a pleasant conversation.

  By the time Monson was released from the hospital, on the seventh day, the school was an incredibly somber place. The fact that he was in relatively good spirits was a surprise to everyone, especially Casey and Artorius.

  “When’s the funeral?” asked Monson quietly as the three side-stepped a group of sophomore girls on their way to breakfast. They gave him a wide berth and then continued to stare as they continued their whispered conversations.

  “That was strange,” said Monson without even thinking. Artorius and Casey exchanged meaningful glances and Monson nodded at them. “Guys, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Dude, I don’t know how to tell you this.” Casey said in an unsure voice. “But rumors started circulating about you after Robert Fairal died. Well…additional rumors-new stuff, not the standard Baroty Bridge nonsense.”

  Monson cocked the eyebrow. “What sort of rumors? Most people already have me pegged as some sort of terrorist or nut job. What could they be possibly saying about me now?”

  Casey motioned to Artorius. “You tell him. You’re more in touch with this stuff.”

  Artorius glared at him, but answered. “People are saying you’re cursed, Grey.”

  There was silence as the words registered. Then the floodgates opened and Monson started laughing so hard he almost wet himself.

  Casey and Artorius stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

  “Sorry, fellas. You two just looked so serious; I thought you were going to tell me that someone decided I was connected to terrorist elements in Europe. I’m relieved. So…I’m cursed? How did that come about?”

  “Not really sure how the rumor got started,” replied Artorius, “but people are looking into your past more and more and starting to put two and two together.”

  “That wasn’t a real answer, Arthur.”

  Artorius glared at the sound of his given name. “What I mean is that people are starting to think like Mr. Gatt and Brian. You’ve almost died three times in the past six months. That has to be some sort of stupid record.”

  He had a point. The same thought had occurred to Monson. Maybe he should call the record books….

  “The death of Robert Fairal hasn’t helped anything.” Casey picked up the thread of the conversation. “People know about the statue that just missed landing on that fat old head of yours back on the first day of school. They know you were the sole survivor of the bridge incident and probably the only person who, at least in theory, could tell us what happened. And now, a perfectly healthy person almost runs you over with a car and dies two days later. People think it’s weird.”

  “So their conclusion is that I’m somehow cursed?”

  Casey shrugged. “People are stupid. But in the absence of truth, people will turn to rumor. No matter how ridiculous.”

  “But cursed?” Monson scratched his head. “People actually think I’m-oh, sorry!”

  Monson bumped into a group of freshman girls that he recognized but had never spoken to. The girl he actually collided with whipped around with an angry expression.

  Monson addressed her. “Again, I am so sorry. I wasn’t paying-”

  “It’s OK,” said the girl abruptly, cutting him off. “Seriously. Not a problem.”

  She searched back over her shoulder and exchanged looks with her friends. “Well, if you’ll excuse us, Mr. Horum Vir.”

  The girls quickly walked away, though with many a furtive glance back.

  Monson cocked his eyebrow and pointed towards the retreating group. “Seriously?”

  “Like I said, people do stupid things.”

  Monson pulled out his phone and wrote: “Reminder: Shoot spitballs at girls in math, especially blonde with lanky hair.”

  “Grey, you’re too lax about this whole situation.” Artorius grabbed the door to The GM.

  “What are you talking about? I’m going to shoot spitballs-how is that lax?”

  “Grey, this is serious!”

  “Arthur. Let it go.” Monson stepped through the open door. “There isn’t some sort of conspiracy against me and if people want to think I’m cursed, who am I to disagree?”

  “I don’t know, Grey.” Casey sidled up to Monson, looking up from his phone. “Arthur has a point.”

  Monson rolled his eyes. ‘So you actually think I’m cursed?”

  Casey glared at him. “Of course not. Don’t be stupid. What I mean is, you’ve almost died twice since I’ve known you. Once from a giant gargoyle and another from a supposedly normal college student in a Ferrari, and let’s not forget what happened at Baroty Bridge. Your luck is bad, brother, but nobody’s luck is that bad.”

  The conversation lapsed as the boys entered the cafeteria and moved into the buffet line. Breakfast food in hand, they sat down at a corner table.

  “So you’re worried I’m cursed or have incredibly bad luck or whatever.” Monson resumed their conversation while tucking into a mountain of scrambled eggs. “Wouldn’t the fact that I’m still alive disprove your theory? That I am in fact quite lucky?”

  Shaking his head, Casey replied, “Only if you define lucky as almost dying every few months. It’s far more likely that the powers of fate have a twisted sense of humor.”

  “OK, so let’s say for a moment that I am cursed. What do you propose I do about it?”

  Casey put his hands to his head in frustration. “Dude, you’re missing the point.”

  Artorius nodded his agreement.

  Monson gestured with his hands, asking them to explain.

  “You must be the smartest dumb guy ever.” Said a distinctly female voice.

  Indigo Harrison sat down next to
Monson, much to Artorius’ chagrin, and ruffled his hair. “Glad to see you back.”

  “Hey, Indigo. It’s good to be back.”

  Indigo smiled. “For someone who almost died and is supposedly worse than crossing in front of a black cat on Friday the thirteenth, you look like you’re in good spirits.”

  Monson scowled at her. “Not you, too? Please tell me you aren’t feeding into this ‘cursed’ nonsense like the rest of nimrods at this school.”

  Case cut in before Indigo could answer. “You know, younger Harrison, I have the guest list to this conversation in my hand, and I am pretty sure you aren’t on it.”

  Indigo shot daggers at Casey, who glared back. “You were telling Monson of his potential ‘whoa’s. Seeing as I am much more dialed in then the rest of you, you’d better let me explain. I’ve been listening and you’re and doing a sucky job of it.”

  “What are you talking about? You’ve been listen-”

  Monson put up a hand. “Casey, it’s fine.”

  Everyone looked at Monson, who smiled. “So lay it on me, Indigo. What is it that they’re putting down that I’m not picking up?”

  Indigo leaned towards him. “Monson, either you’ve noticed the glances, the way people avoid your eyes, or these two goons have told you as much.

  Indigo shot a sarcastic smile at Casey and Artorius. Casey glowered. “Indigo, I seriously think I hate you.”

  Indigo ignored him and continued,. “OK, all jokes aside, this was never about you being cursed. No one really believes that. What your two inarticulate friends are trying to say is that you’ve had two close calls in just a couple of months. Plus you’re sort of involved in a mysterious death to boot! That just doesn’t happen in normal civilized society, Monson. Now consider this: you are the sole survivor of the Baroty Bridge. Dignitaries, leaders, foreign diplomats all died and who was the only person who lived? Monson Grey! Monson, nobody really knows why you were even on the bridge that day. Who are you? Why were you invited to attend an event for political and economic powerhouses? Add to that the devastation on the bridge, the fact that nobody knows what happened, and that no group has ever claimed responsibility, and it gets people thinking. Now, months later we aren’t any closer to learning the truth of Baroty Bridge, and you almost die-twice-and the person who just about kills you and Arthur over here ends up dead. Consider those events in turn, and once you do, you realize that we’ve got something more like fiction than real life. Now if that isn’t enough, here’s the kicker, the key: The answers, the truth behind all the speculation and conspiracy theories could very well lie with you.”