The House of Grey- Volume 3 Page 3

  “There has to be inkling of a point in there.”

  “Here’s the point, sassy. What if…what if someone is trying to keep you from telling what you know? And they’re willing to kill you to do this?”

  Monson started to speak, but realized that he had no idea what to say.

  ***

  Hours later he sat outside Mr. Gatt’s classroom, the sun low in the sky. Monson, slumped against one of the larger trees in front of the building, was trying to convince himself to stand up. He knew he should be heading back to The Barracks; he, Casey and Artorius were about to start the first of a sevenpart genre-based movie marathon beginning with action flicks from the 1980s. They had already postponed twice and Casey was not going to be happy if Monson canceled a third time. Still, he was unable to move. His thoughts kept him in place, the words of Indigo bouncing around in his head. What if someone was trying to kill him? Trying to kill him! It seemed crazy to think, let alone say out loud. The ironic thing about someone wanting him dead, whether or not he believed it, was the fact that he didn’t have the answers; he had no secrets to tell. He didn’t know what happened at Baroty Bridge-scratch that, his issues ran deeper than what happened at Baroty Bridge. He couldn’t remember much about his past. Where he grew up. Where he went to school. He had so many questions concerning himself; the bridge was just the start of it. To think that someone would kill him over his supposed knowledge of such a short period of time-the destruction had happened in just moments, that much he did know-it was all just…surreal.

  “Did you find what I need?”

  Monson’s thoughts were interrupted by voices just beyond where he lay. They shouldn’t be able to see him. So Monson didn’t feel inclined to move.

  “Yeah, but I’m giving it to y’all under protest.”

  Monson stopped just as he was inserting his ear buds. He recognized one of the voices.

  Derek?

  The other voice held a drawl…Deep South. Georgia, perhaps?

  Monson shook his head. There was no way he could know where the accent was from.

  “I’ve heard your protests, but don’t worry-you’ve done the right thing. This was going to come out sooner or later; better that you let me spin it as opposed to letting the student body getting hold of it. Besides…”

  Monson cringed at the evident self-importance in Derek’s voice.

  “It’s not like you had a choice.”

  The Southern-accented voice sounded disgusted. “I could punch you in the kisser right now and not feel the least bit guilty about it.”

  Monson silently snapped his fingers. He knew the voice. He heard it just about every day in Mr. Gatt’s class: It was Grayson Garrett. This was a familiar scene, Derek trying to mess with Grayson. It sounded like he was succeeding. Monson started to rise.

  “That’s rich, Grayson, seeing as you couldn’t reach me from that chair of yours.” This was met with a round of laughter from others in attendance at this twilight meeting.

  He should not have been able to hear him, not from this distance, but he did nonetheless. Grayson swore under his breath.

  “We should be going,” said Derek amid loud chuckles, “I’ve got a funeral to attend and a show to tape. We wouldn’t want to keep the campus waiting, would we?”

  The laughter grew quieter; . Monson assumed that Derek and his goons were retreating to whatever hole they had crawled out of. Monson considered running out and punching Derek for Grayson. Heaven knows he deserved it. Monson, on his feet now, moved towards Grayson.

  “Hey,” said Grayson. At least, Monson thought it was Grayson’s voice; it was coming from where Grayson had been just moments ago, but sounded somewhat different. “Yeah, it’s me. It’s done. I gave it to him.”

  He paused, and Monson stopped.. He found that his legs wouldn’t move.

  “Marie-yes-I know…I don’t like it any more than you do-well, of course not. He served his purpose. Fine, fine...I’ll do what I can. I know, but this is the fastest way, you know this. I understand that it might cause trouble, but it has to happen. We need to know. OK. Talk to you soon.”

  Monson remained hidden as the crunch of small rocks indicated Grayson’s departure. Darkness fell around Monson, realization creeping in at the same time.

  He spoke aloud. “Derek is using Grayson to do something… find something. Grayson is seemingly gathering those items against his will...but…but, he has his own purpose. Grayson is in fact using Derek.”

  Monson jumped, the ringing and vibrating of his phone startling him half to death.

  “Hello.”

  “Grey, it’s Casey, where the blazes are you?”

  Crap, thought Monson, I’m late.

  “Nowhere, Casey. I’m on my way.”

  “Dude, you just forced me to spend alone time with Arthur and you know that makes my head hurt.”

  Casey laughed. “Seriously, why are you late? What have you been doing?”

  Monson stepped onto the main path that would take him back to The Barracks, wondering if he would run into Grayson. “Nothing dude, nothing at all.”

  Chapter 27 – Turn

  “So where were you? What were you doing? Why won’t you tell me? Are you starting a coven? Because I don’t think the pointed hat would work for you.”

  “OMG, you’re annoying. Let it go, dude.”

  Monson paused.

  “And I would rock the pointed hat, thank you very much.”

  It was Friday during sixth period gym class, about a week after Derek and Grayson’s clandestine meeting outside Mr. Gatt’s classroom. Casey and Artorius had interrogated him about his whereabouts and why he was late to their movie night. That should have been the end of it. The problem was, Monson was a terrible liar. Casey had known instantly that something was up and had been relentlessly pestering Monson since.

  “Dude, we are so not friends anymore. That’s it. We are done.” Casey crossed his arms in a gesture of finality.

  “Casey, that might actually mean something if you hadn’t already said it like six billion times. Not gonna lie, it’s starting to lose its effect.”

  Monson wasn’t completely sure why he refused to explain himself to Casey; perhaps the rumors, dirty looks and whispered conversations were starting to get to him. The truth, he finally realized, was that he didn’t want to talk about Grayson and Derek on the off-chance that their little rendezvous might have something to do with him.

  He was being paranoid. He knew that. There was no reason to think they were talking about him, but still…

  “Dude, you’re spacing out again. Spill it, already. You’ll feel better.”

  Freaking Casey. Monson just needed more time to process all of this. An idea formed in his head…an idea that might just work.

  “Check this out.” Monson pulled up his phone and booted up the “Notes” section. He searched for the appropriate information, found the note, and tabbed it. He showed the screen to Casey.

  Casey scanned the note. “What is it?”

  “Directions,” said Monson simply.

  “I can see that, you git. What do they mean?”

  “Git?”

  Casey nodded. “Yeah, git-it’s a British insult. I thought I would try it on for size.”

  “Terrible.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Don’t you think-”

  “No.”

  “But what if I-”

  “No.”

  “Seriously, if I start-”

  “Dude.” Monson cocked the eyebrow. “Really. Just no.”

  Casey scowled. “Fine. Numbnuts.”

  “That’s better.”

  “What are these directions for?”

  “No idea.”

  “I’m losing interest in this conversation, Grey.”

  Monson sighed and then explained to Casey where the directions had come from.

  “The Diamond gave them to you? Why?”

  “No idea.”

  Casey g
lanced over his shoulder. “You want to go check it out?”

  Monson smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Casey started to get up. “Wait, where’s Artorius?”

  Monson pointed across the gym to where Artorius could be seen chatting with Indigo Harrison and her goofy gaggle of girls. Nearby was Cyann, playfully engaged in a fencing match. Monson’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, then shifted back to Artorius.

  “Should we tell him?”

  Casey shook his head. “No. He’s busy. If it’s anything of interest we’ll tell him later.”

  The boys moved slowly towards the back of the gym, hoping no one had taken notice of them.

  “Have you talked to Kylie?” asked Monson abruptly, turning back towards Casey. Casey almost choked on his water.

  “What are you talking about?” sputtered Casey, gasping for air.

  Monson patted Casey gently on the upper back. “I was wondering if you had come around to talking to Kylie. Remember, the whole mind-control-exploding-tree-you-slugging-me incident? I really think you need to talk to her. It’s been weeks.”

  “I told you, that’s not possible,” said Casey, shaking his head. “Too much bad blood. It’s better this way, trust me.”

  “What about an explanation? I think you owe me one.”

  “You’re one to talk. Who are you, Monson Grey? Where did you come from? How did you survive Baroty Bridge or win a competition that is well-known to be rigged? How come you know a lot about fencing and fighting, yet little about everything else? Shall I continue?”

  Monson and Casey walked briskly towards the massive steel doors. Damion’s instructions required them to move about the less-frequented parts of the Battleground. Places they probably weren’t allowed to be. Monson and Casey ducked into the Legion’s private weight room, expecting it to be empty, and were surprised to find a class being led by Coach Hawke.

  “Coach,” said Monson, coming to a dead stop before nearly falling to the ground laughing. Coach Hawke had his shirt off and was displaying his impressively sculpted physique to a group of distinctly uncomfortable male and female weight training students. He nodded to Monson and Casey, oblivious to their amusement, before continuing his lecture.

  “This perfectly molded frame comes from the accumulated achievement of the Hawke Family. The technique I’m about to demonstrate was created generations ago-”

  Casey was shaking just as hard as Monson. “I’m not even sure what to say to that.”

  Monson nodded his head in agreement.

  “So what do the directions say?” Casey asked in a hurried voice. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Over there. I think there’s a back door through the weight room.”

  They pushed through the door and then jogged down the hallway until they came to a fork. Casey stopped abruptly as they saw another unexpected guest. “Dude-”

  It was Kylie. She was looking at her phone and moving quietly along the deserted hallway.

  “What do you suppose she’s up to?” asked Casey.

  “No idea.”

  “I’m going to follow her.”

  Monson cocked the eyebrow. “Why?”

  “She might be up to something.”

  Casey didn’t give him the chance to respond. He moved silently behind Kylie down the hall.

  Monson was alone. He looked again at the directions. He had originally suggested this plan to try to focus Casey on something besides his whereabouts the previous week, but now that he was here, he wanted to see where the rabbit hole led.

  Monson shook his head. He hated that saying.

  A left, a right, around a corner, down a hallway, up some stairs, through some doors, behind a curtain, through another door, and up a stairway, deeper and deeper into the cavernous interior of the Battleground.

  After another fifteen minutes following Damion’s directions, Monson reached his destination. “Another weight room?”

  He scanned his surroundings. Why would Damion send him here? That seemed like an odd thing to do.

  The room, however, was gorgeous-not a word he would usually choose to describe a weight room, but it worked in this case. Placed methodically around the room was the finest of lifting equipment. At least one of the six massive widescreen plasma TVs was visible from any location in the room. Huge sub-woofers adorned the floor with accompanying mid-range-tweeter units affixed to the wall, and all blared music at amazing decibels. A juice bar packed with supplements sat neatly organized, as if tended by an entire staff of faithful employees. He walked towards the bar and touched the cool surface of the polished stainless steel countertop. The juice bar sprang to life with the sound of moving parts and grinding ice. A glass literally appeared from nowhere as a small panel slid open and some sort of inner mechanism pushed the glass up from the depths of the counter. Filled to the brim, the glass held a viscous orange substance that smelled of…

  “Mango?” wondered Monson aloud as he reached for the glass. “How did it know that I liked mango?”

  Monson took a sip. It was really good. He put the glass back on the counter as he marveled at the rest of the room.

  “Hello? Anybody there?”

  No answer. Monson grinned.

  Inhibition lost, he amused himself for a bit with the machines and free weights. He sampled everything, laughing as he imagined himself as a massive bodybuilder. He personally felt this look was not particularly attractive, but just about anything was better than his current state. Besides, he was in a weight room after all.

  The music suddenly cut out.

  He spun around, dropping the 20 lb. dumbbell he had been messing with. There was no one there, and excluding the sudden absence of music, nothing seemed out of place. But as soon as he thought this, the speakers began to emit a low hum of white noise.

  Listen….

  “Listen?” asked Monson aloud. “Listen to what?”

  Listen…to me….

  Monson attempted to master himself. His mind was playing tricks on him. He was not hearing a voice through the speakers. On the other hand, if he was, then someone was probably just messing around. That seemed plausible, even likely. Revenge for using the equipment. Made sense.

  Relief engulfed Monson. Someone was having some fun. Well, he was not going to hang around for it; they couldn’t mess with him if he wasn’t in the room. He gathered himself and walked determinedly towards the door.

  The door was locked.

  “Very clever,” called Monson. “I get it. I’ve learned my lesson. Come out already.”

  No answer came.

  Starting to get angry, he looked for some means of escape just then the TVs mysteriously cut off, as if a sudden surge had seared their insides. Snow-like static materialized on the screens. The effect was eerie. Monson raised his eyes to one on the far wall just in time to see words appearing letter by letter.

  Listen to me please

  OK, now he was officially freaked out.

  The screens went black again. The room was silent. Monson had had enough and ran to the door, fully intending to kick it down.

  No…please stop…listen…you need to listen.

  The voice stopped him dead in his tracks. It was not coming from the speakers, nor was it coming from the TVs. It sounded like it was coming from…himself.

  Wait…that didn’t make any sense…

  All the flat screens abruptly flared to life, displaying what looked to be footage from a security camera. Monson saw…himself, standing in the middle of the weight room.

  He was right. Someone was messing with him. And that someone was going to get a beating that-

  Unexpectedly, the Monson on the screen looked up, directly into the camera. Something did not seem right. Was this a recording? The actual Monson stepped closer to the TV. All at once he shrank back, tripping over the dropped dumbbell. He sat, staring at the face of the on-screen Monson. It was completely…normal. Totally devoid of scars. He scrambled off the floor and searched the room
for the security camera that his on-screen counterpart was staring at. He glanced at several of the big screens, trying to orient himself to the image. Based on the camera angle, he determined where the camera should be and scanned the wall for a mounted camera.

  Only there was no such camera. What am I looking at?

  He studied the TV next to where the camera should have been.

  A camera zoomed in on the face of the on-screen Monson. He smiled as he parted his lips to speak.

  Suddenly Monson’s head was filled with raging and screaming, and he shuddered, starting to fall when-

  “Grey! Are you all right?”

  An arm caught him and gently lowered him to the ground. Monson felt as if a ten-ton truck had just hit him. He opened a bleary eye and peered at his savior.

  The Diamond?

  Damion Peterson scrutinized Monson with a concerned expression on his face. Monson’s face reflected his own confusion.

  “What…what are you doing here?” His voice sounded hoarse, like he had never used it before.

  “Here. Drink.” Damion offered his water bottle.

  Monson drank deeply from the bottle, aware of the crackle of contorting plastic. Trying to consume the water faster than his mouth and throat would let him, he choked and bent over, gasping for air..

  “Slow down there, Monson.” Damion patted him on the back. “The bottle isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Thanks,” came Monson’s reply. “For some reason I’m really thirsty.” He remained hunched over for another minute and felt better after several deep breaths.