The House of Grey- Volume 1 (12 page)

"Oh, well, as you can see, the caterers are passing out gift baskets now. An information packet has been included on Mr. Grey. Now, I am sure you are all dying to come and get to know Mr. Grey better, so we'll move along with the greeting portion of the evening.  Please form a line at the base of the stage."

"Wait a moment," Dean Dayton tried to whisper. "Markin, what are you doing? Wait, I still—"

Mr. Gatt ignored the dean and steered Monson to a large stool. The dean stared after them, then, with a flash of anger, stormed off. The lights dimmed and Monson rubbed at his eyes. He could finally see properly. He did not like what he saw.

There was already a line—a big one. More than twenty people chatted among themselves while Mr. Gatt situated Monson.

"Mr. Gatt, what are you doing?"

Mr. Gatt whispered to him, "Saving you from answering a great deal of invasive questions, which I doubt you want to answer. Now sit."

Monson sat on the stool. The regal but frumpy woman at the head of the line came to him and offered a hand.

"Monson, this is the Duchess of Devonshire. She is a longtime supporter of Coren and responsible for most of the art you see on the campus."

"I also saw your performance at the Knowledge Bowl last year," the Duchess offered. "Marvelous, my dear boy, absolutely marvelous. I was sad to hear that you were part of the tragedy at Baroty's Bridge. How on earth did you ever survive such a horrible—"

"I apologize, Duchess," Mr. Gatt bowed formally, "but Mr. Grey has many people to meet tonight. If you like, I will take your card and you can contact Mr. Grey for a meeting, his schedule permitting, of course." 

The Duchess shot Mr. Gatt a murderous stare. Monson was quite glad not to be on the receiving end of that. But the Duchess had enough tact not to make a scene; she exited quietly, without leaving her card.

"One down, Mr. Grey."

Monson tilted his head back to look at Mr. Gatt. "One down?"

Mr. Gatt smiled. "Yes, and probably one hundred or so to go."

Monson swore under his breath.

Mr. Gatt's grin grew wider. "My sentiments exactly."

Monson raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said that swearing was the product of a deranged mind, or something."

Mr. Gatt patted Monson on the shoulder. "Close enough, but in this case I am willing to make an exception. These people make me want to swear. Endure. We will accomplish this rather daunting task together. Now, the next guest is the head of Apple . . . ."

Monson sat up a little straighter. It was going to be a long night.

***

"If I ever have to do that again, I am simply going to put a bullet in my head."

It was close to midnight and Casey, Artorius, and Monson were walking with Mr. Gatt through the massive reception hall.

"You did well." Mr. Gatt navigated the hall at a leisurely pace, but it was obvious he was tired, and with good reason. Mr. Gatt had spent most of the night helping Monson dodge any sort of personal questions, and doing so with such poise and charm that it was impossible to take offense. The man had obviously played this sort of political game before.

Monson shot a skeptical expression at Mr. Gatt. "I did well? I didn't do anything. You were the one insulting people in a brutally polite manner. You gonna tell me what all that was about?" 

"Dude, I thought you were smart." Casey showed Monson one of the many well-known Internet search engines on his phone. "You'd probably guess if you took half a second to think about it."

Monson looked at the most commonly searched term of the hour, day, week, and even month. "Baroty's Bridge" lit up brightly for all eyes to see.

There were millions of searches on that term within the last hour alone.

"It must be a slow news week," Monson commented. "Baroty's Bridge happened months ago."

Casey asked incredulously, "Dude, have you been living in a box? Look at the headlines."

He pulled up a news feed search highlighting every story, article, or blog mentioning Baroty's Bridge. He put his phone up to Monson's face as they reached the doors leading outside, where they were greeted with a blast of surprisingly cool air. Monson grabbed Casey's phone and scanned the most popular results. There were millions of hits. Apparently Baroty's Bridge was a hot topic. If that was the case, why was everyone making such a ruckus about him?

"Speculation," Casey answered, as if he were reading Monson's thoughts.

Monson stopped dead in his tracks. Mr. Gatt gave Casey a reproving look. "Cassius, must we speak of such—"

Monson cut in. "What do you mean, speculation? Casey?"

Mr. Gatt and Casey looked at each other. Casey answered hesitantly, "Monson, no one has any idea what happened at Baroty's Bridge. If you were to read all these stories, blogs and newsreels, the only thing you'd get is frustrated. There has been no new information in months as to what left everyone on the bridge—all three hundred people—dead. All except you."

Monson's breathing became heavy, and inevitably his thoughts turned to Molly. No wonder she didn’t tell him about this. 

"Guys," Artorius said, oblivious to the seriousness of the conversation. "Is it just me or is it really dark out here? I mean, like, zombie apocalypse dark."

Casey snickered and he launched into baby talk. "Ahh, Arthur, you don't have to be scared of the dark. Cassius will protect you.

His voice switched back to normal. "Oh, and as for the inevitable zombie apocalypse, if you'd just read that book I gave you, you'd be totally prepared."

Artorius scowled. "Please, I could have gotten better zombie protection . . . . "

His voice drifted off. He seemed to be listening to something.

Casey laughed. "Sure, Arthur—"

Mr. Gatt interrupted this time. “No, Cassius, I hear something— Monson, look out!"

Monson looked up just in time to see a flash of bright light and a massive dark object hurling toward him.

“Good morning, my dear Hero.”

Monson awoke from a very nice dream just in time to see a blurred figure pull open the curtains. The light was not welcome. “And how do we fair this fine morning, Master Grey?”

“You mean besides my brush with death?

Brian’s figure slowly became visible. “Yes, of course.”

Monson shrugged. “Besides the near-death experience I’m just fine. Thanks for asking.”

“It concerns me that you can be so nonchalant about a giant statue almost crushing you to death.”

Monson thought back to the night before. Casey had been the one who sprang into action. The huge gargoyle crashed right where Monson had been standing, and it had been Casey who pulled him out of the way at the last moment. An at-the-buzzer save is a bit clichéd, but Monson would always take that over an unexpected loss. Mr. Gatt freaked out, of course, and immediately took Monson back to his room before he summoning Coren’s entire on-call medical staff. It was well after 2 a.m. before Monson finally convinced Mr. Gatt and the doctors that he was fine. Surprisingly enough, Monson slept like a baby after that.

Monson shrugged at Brian’s comment. “Did you see Baroty’s Bridge? A giant falling statue is like a walk in the park.”

Brian pulled at the covers, apparently unconvinced. “I’ll take your word for it, but know that I have my eye on you. Now, how would you like to take your breakfast?”

Monson cocked an eyebrow. “You lost me there, Bri-guy. How do most people take their breakfast? With a fork, or spoon I suppose, depending on what you’re serving.”

Brian laughed.  For some reason, he seemed to find Monson very funny; it annoyed Monson.  “What I mean, Hero, is that unlike most people here, you have a choice. If you prefer, you can take your breakfast with your classmates, or I can have it prepared and brought up here where you can breakfast in peace."

Monson meant to answer Brian's inquiry, but was saved the trouble by a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Monson said quickly before Brian could respond. He moved briskly out from behind the wet bar toward the great oak door, ignoring Brian’s objections. Monson gave Brian a look over his shoulder; Brian just smiled and shook his head.

“Whaaaaatz up!”  Casey bellowed, strolling into the apartment even before Monson could finish opening the door. Artorius followed.  “Aren’t you ready yet? We gots places to go,
Hero.
The clock waits for no one. Move it, already!”

“And morning to you, Casey.”

“What’s going on, Grey?" asked Artorius with a quick smile. “How you doing, you know, after yesterday—well you know.”

“I’ll live, I think,” Monson winked. “It’s not my first rodeo in the near-death experience category.”

Artorius smiled, but looked unsure.

“Well, boys,” interrupted Brian. “It would be prudent for you all to be off for breakfast.  You do not want to be late for your first lessons. Do any of you know the way to the GM?”

They glanced at one another and shook their heads vigorously. “Well then, let me acquire a school map and I will show you.”

Moments later, the boys found themselves in a sea of people. As Casey went into a full-out rant about football and something called the “power I,” Monson was left to observe his fellow students. This was his first time around the entire student body and he found the experience distasteful. Monson could already see cliques developing among the students, and for some reason this bothered him.  Maybe it was because he suspected he had never been part of a group or crowd, and was jealous.  He doubted anything would change; he couldn’t see himself inducted into the cool kids’ clique anytime soon.

Monson looked back over his shoulder at the place that would be his home for at least the next year.  He felt distaste rise up again. Looming in the distance, the student dormitory, affectionately called the “The Barracks,” by the student body, had two wings for males and females, and eight floors shared by grades nine through twelve. The Elite quarters, which housed private tutors and their pupils to make tutoring sessions more productive, was on another part of campus.

In The Barracks, male and female students lived in the same building separated by a variety of  “safety” precautions, including cameras and elaborate door locks. There were certain times when the electronic measures were taken down and the students could explore each other’s living spaces, but these were closely supervised. All students shared a ridiculously large, two-story common room that was adjacent to and continued underneath the Atrium. Nicknamed “The Jive,” the room boasted pool tables,
Ping-Pong
tables, vending machines, a couple of large TVs, and assorted other means of entertainment. The washing machines and dryers were there as well, though most of the students opted for the Executive Service, or “Ex Service,” which provided a staff to handle things like laundry and cleaning. It was a neat place to live, for
most
people.

“Excuse me.”

A sweet voice caused Monson to almost jump out of his skin.   Wrapped up in his own thoughts, he now realized that not only were Artorius and Casey nowhere to be seen, but he stood in the midst of a group of very pretty upperclassman girls. A particularly cute girl with curly strawberry-blonde hair stood in front of him, smiling. He studied her, not sure what to say, and in an attempt to smile, barely managed a grimace. He heard murmuring behind him, but ignored it, focusing on the girl.  

Her appearance was abrupt and regal, yet demure somehow; quite the contradiction. Her curly hair obscured a portion of her face, which added a little mystery. She was altogether striking.

“I am so sorry,” said Monson, addressing the redhead. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

The girl did not answer right away, instead studying him curiously with a strange look on her face. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“No…I don’t think so. Monson took a few breaths to steady himself; the stares of the girl’s companions were getting to him. “And if you’re trying to pick me up, you don’t need to go any further. You had me at hello.”

The girl giggled. “But I didn’t say hello.”

Monson answered without thinking. “You
would
have had me at hello?”

He groaned to himself; did he really just say that? 

“It appears that our new Hero has a sense of humor,” the girl mused. Her gaze lingered on Monson; her expression was slightly mischievous. Monson was not quite sure what to do at this point. People like her didn’t look people like him in the eyes. What was wrong with this girl?

Monson gazed at her. She smiled again. It was soft and inviting. This girl…there was something different about her. He didn’t know what to make of it.

“I’m Monson.”  Monson put forth his hand, trying to sound confident “How did you know that I’m the new
Horum Vir
?”

“Alas, that is a long story,” confessed the redhead. “It actually took me a second to recognize you. I’m sorry about that.”

Then, without warning, she curtsied.

Monson just stood, baffled. The girls in the circle laughed again. Monson bowed awkwardly. It seemed like the best idea at the time.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Monson peered at her with an analytical eye.

“You’re right.”  Her smile was becoming wider by the second. He raised an eyebrow. Laughing slightly at his reaction, she winked and said, “Let’s just say you and I go way back.” She gave him a little wink.

Gasps and muttering broke out from the surrounding crowd; Monson had to raise his voice to be heard.

“I didn’t catch your name.” 

“Taris.” Her voice, in contrast, was almost a whisper; nonetheless, he could hear every syllable. Every inflection. He could hear her perfectly. “Taris Green.”

“Yo, Monson,” bellowed a voice from a ways off.

Monson turned from Taris to see Casey and Artorius staring at him, looks of awe comically contorting their faces. Monson laughed and turned back to the redhead.

“I’d better go.” He gestured towards his friends.

“Yeah, you’re right,” she replied. “Maybe I’ll see you around, pretty boy.”

“Maybe.” He smiled at her again. “But only if you’re lucky.”

  Without another word, he turned around and walked smoothly towards the still-gawking Casey and Artorius while thoughts bounced around his head like crackling popcorn.

If you’re lucky? What’s up with that stupid comment? Who talks like that?

Monson neared Artorius
and Casey.

“Has the world gone mad?” asked Artorius, placing his hand over his eyes and squinting into the distance.  “How is that we find you in the company of Taris Green?”

“Is that bad?” said Monson, awakening from his internal monologue.

“No, it’s amazing,” said Casey, who looked just as bewildered as Artorius.
“She's like one of the hottest girls…,” he struggled to find the word, “ever. And she’s like totally famous.”

“She seemed really nice,” said Monson tentatively. “Do you guys know her?”

“We’ve met,” said Casey excitedly, “but we’ve never had what I’d call an extensive conversation. I had a backstage pass to a concert last year.” His eyes faded as if he were losing the ability to focus. “There’s an outdoor
amphitheater called the
Gorge in Eastern Washington. She performed there. I met her then.”

“I wouldn’t call
our
conversation extensive,” replied Monson. “We just introduced ourselves. It wasn’t a big deal. Though I must say that it was kinda weird when she knew who I was.”

“She knew who you were?” inquired Casey. “That is weird. What did she say?”