The House of Grey- Volume 5 (20 page)

“You don’t know what happened?”

Monson let himself fall back in the bed, turning his eyes towards the ceiling. “I do, kind of. It’s just hard to explain.”

“Could you try?”

Monson sat back up. “Scary, Cyann. Really, really scary.”

Cyann touched his arm, causing him to look towards her. He smiled at the concern in her eyes.

Abruptly, he jumped up and threw off the covers, absently noting that he was still in his own clothes from the night before. Cyann followed his lead, starting to fold back the sheets and stepping out of the bed. The blankets remained suspended for the briefest of moments before she whipped them back over her body as her face flushed a steamy sunburnt red.

She was almost choking on her words. “I don’t have any pants on!”

“I know,” replied Monson with a smile as he tried not to laugh. “I saw when I brought you back to bed last night.” Then he added for good measure, “You have amazing legs, by the way.”

He ducked as one of his pillows flew his way.

“Turn around!” she growled. Monson did as he was told. The soft patter of feet told him that she was out of bed and off towards his bathroom.

“Your dress is destroyed.” Monson called out, pointing at the blue shreds at the foot of the bed. “Find something of mine in the closet and we’ll go find the others and see what’s going on.”

Monson edged towards the window and waited until the click of the bathroom door told him that Cyann was out of sight. He stripped down from there, throwing on some long baggy shorts, a pair of Nikes, and a Coren hoody.

Cyann exited his bathroom wearing some of his soccer shorts and one of his older t-shirts. The clothes were way too big for her. The shirt looked
 
like a very short dress and the shorts, even with the drawstring, were struggling to stay on her slim hips. Monson appraised her.

“You look ridiculous.”

She scowled. “You be quiet. I’m not very happy with you right now.”

“Me? What did I do?”

Cyann merely scowled and looked away, blushing again.

Monson did not notice, however, his attention having moved to something outside his window. A very ominous sight met his gaze. “Cyann, come look at this.”

She joined him in front of the window as they both looked down.

“What the—” whispered Cyann.

Hundreds of people walked in orderly columns as if they were part of some sort of procession or parade. But it was not the size of the crowd that caused Monson alarm. Rather, it was their strange manner of dress. The burnished breastplates of Roman Legionnaires glinted in the early beams of morning sunlight shining down upon Coren University. They walked with spears at their sides, tip up, and with the signature blood red, square-framed shields angled from their bodies. It was a great and terrible sight, and one Monson had definitely not expected to ever see. His stomach started to turn. Something was wrong. 

“Cyann,” Monson whispered quietly. “Does Coren have some sort of parade that I don’t know about?”

Cyann confirmed his suspicions. “Not that I know of, but even if they did, there aren’t enough people in the entire valley to pull off this kind of a spectacle.”

He nodded. “So what are they here for? Could they be for all the dignitaries; some
sort of publicity stunt
?”

Cyann ran a weary hand through her glossy hair. “I don’t know. After last night, for all we know, it could be some sort of wormhole through the fabric of time and those soldiers are going to raze us like the Romans did to Carthage during the last Punic war.”

Monson about-faced. “It makes about as much sense as everything else that’s been happening. Whether they’re from a wormhole or not, that is an army down there. Come on—we need to find the others.”

Monson pulled at Cyann, moving to the door. He stopped right as he was about to touch the handle as an idea popped into his head. He let go of Cyann and turned from her.

“Where are you going?” she asked curiously.

“I have an idea I want to try,” replied Monson vaguely. “Something from our black-cloaked friend. Who knows if it’s going to work or not, but at this point it’s all I got.”

Cyann nodded, though it was plain that the meaning of Monson’s words was lost on her. He walked to his dresser,
opened a
drawer, and gazed down on the metal glove that Grayson had placed in his care so many weeks ago. The metal shone like heated silver; Monson was leery of touching it. His concerns were misplaced, though, as the glove was quite cool to the touch. Monson pulled out the glove and then set off searching around his room. He looked frantically around and on the bed, tossing blankets and pillows in every direction. He soon became frustrated.

It has to be here, he thought. I know it’s around here somewhere. Why could he not find it? A tap on his shoulder caused him to look up. Cyann gave him an exasperated look.

“Why is it that boys can never ask for help?” She held out the silver stone. “Are you looking for this?”

Monson snatched it from her, annoyed. “I can ask for help, I just—”

“Didn’t think?” Cyann crossed her arms smugly. “I gathered as much.”

Monson ignored her last comment. In one hand, he held his stone; the stone that his grandfather had given him for a particular but unknown purpose. In the other hand, he grasped the glove that could perform great acts of power, even summon a Magi Blade. He wondered what would happen if he joined the two. He was looking for power, power that he had the strange feeling they were going to need fairly soon.

He took a deep breath,
then
slowly placed the silver stone in the exact middle of the metal plate that sat on the center of the glove hand. He held his breath.

Nothing happened. Monson looked down at the glove in confusion. Then instantly, light exploded from the glove, flooding the room with a sullen glow. He flinched as a slimy feeling gripped him, a sensation of small snakes worming their way into his very core.

Don’t fight it. Dawn’s voice slammed into him. The strength of the connection encircled him.

Dawn! Monson let his relief at their renewed connection pour from him. Where have you been?

Dawn did not answer him; he seemed unable to. Monson tried to work through what that meant, but the slimy tendrils completely enveloped him, connecting and latching onto him in the most bizarre of ways. The feeling was incredibly uncomfortable, truly unlike anything he had ever felt. It caused him to cringe.

He felt a hand touch his face. Monson opened his eyes to see Cyann’s hesitant expression.

“You might want to stand back,” Monson grunted. “I don’t know what this thing is going to do. It might be dangerous.”

Cyann replied softly. “If you’re staying, I can stay too. Besides, what kind of an upperclassman would I be if I let you blow yourself up or something?”

Monson cocked the eyebrow. “Thanks. That’s comforting.”

A burst of energy surged along the tendrils, shoving away any other smart comment on the tip of his tongue. He briefly yelped in pain as the power burned and consumed. And then it was over; it just stopped. The light died down and the tendrils of power rested comfortably in that strange inner part of him. The room now appeared totally normal again, as if nothing had happened. The glove itself was also unchanged except for the silver stone pulsing warmly at its center.

Cyann reached out to touch his metal-plated hand, speaking so low that Monson had to strain to hear her. “What is that thing?”

The glove flared back to life.
Monson instinctively
shoved Cyann away, convinced that some impending doom was about to claim both their lives. Her butt hit the floor with a soft bump. She shot a nasty look in his direction, one that he did not see, as the glove’s current state had him totally captivated.

A screen-like projection shot up from the glove appearing in front of Monson’s eyes. Perhaps two feet across and a foot deep, the screen displayed jumbles of odd, flickering symbols. The symbols whipped across the length and depth of the screen, blinking in and out of existence. Monson peered closer, trying to figure out what they were, but was jarred from this contemplation as the tendrils reengaged their assault on his mind. Images paraded through his mind’s eye in a disjointed way that resisted any attempt to comprehend them. He closed his eyes a second time waiting for the sensation to pass. The tendrils explored his mind for another few seconds until, apparently having found what they were looking for, they withdrew to their original resting place. Monson opened his eyes and wiped a tear from his cheek.

“Monson,” said Cyann, awestruck. “Look.”

Monson followed the gaze of Cyann’s bulging eyes to the glove’s holographic screen.

Letters and sentences jumped out at him—in Times New Roman font, no less. Monson was about to start reading but Cyann beat him to the punch, speaking aloud the very first line at the top of the screen.

“Glyian Combat Glove Type Five. See disclaimers for product warranties and liability. W.W. PAC. All rights reserved. This glove makes no implied or express warranties. Do all spell casting at your own risk. Warning! Advanced Spells: First and foremost, the four beginning levels of the Warlock’s Blade should be done at separate times. Never attempt more than one blade formation at any given time as this could result in serious bodily injury or death. DO NOT ATTEMPT ADVANCED LEVELS! This glove is not designed to work with the advanced levels of the Warlock’s Blade; use only as directed. If you have questions contact Customer Service at…”

Cyann paused, taking the chance to glance briefly at Monson. “I think I just read a product liability disclaimer.”

Monson cocked his eyebrow. “Well, it’s good to know that whatever magical government required this is just as corrupt as ours. Disclaiming this product’s liability…unbelievable.”

“Monson, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Monson pointed to the glove. “This glove is a weapon and these….” He indicated a list of phrases under the product liability disclaimer Cyann had just read. “I’m assuming these are names of spells. If I were to guess, this glove is some sort of shortcut to spell casting.”

He thought back to his encounter with the black-cloaked man. Now it made sense. If what Grayson said was true, the man with the black cloak, or anyone else for that matter, should not be able to cast such complex spells without Scripting them first. This glove did that.

A massive revelation occurred to him as soon as he thought this. “Cyann, this glove is the ultimate shortcut. It does everything for you except say the words. That’s why the power tendrils probed my mind, to change the language on the screen. If I can’t read the script I can’t use the spell.”

Cyann stared at him open-mouthed. Obviously, everything he had just said to her went right over her head. This was not surprising; of course it went over her head. She had absolutely no idea about any of this. Monson had a sudden feeling of distance, a feeling that he did not enjoy at all. He decided it was time for Cyann to get up to speed. They needed to find the others.

Monson removed the glove and was relieved to find that it came right off, along with everything else, including the strange tendrils of power. Cyann continued to watch him solemnly. He smiled and tried to reassure her. “I know you’re confused, but you’re going to get some answers, I promise. I just need to find the person who can give them to you.”

Monson placed the metal glove in the pocket of his hoody. He thought about wearing it outside, but he decided not to jump to conclusions, hoping that he would not suffer through all those adjustments once he put the glove back on. That would be bad. Despite that, he felt a bit more secure with the glove in his possession. The army outside worried him.

“You know, something has been bothering me,” said Cyann, watching him struggle to secure the glove.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit on the quiet side?”

Monson cocked the eyebrow. “I’m not picking up what you’re putting down here, my dear.”

“You and I just slept in the same bed, Monson.” Cyann’s face again reddened at the words. Monson placed a hand over his mouth, attempting to hide his smile. Cyann sure could be cute, even when she wasn’t trying to be…which was always.

She was right, of course. It was way too quiet. In fact, now that he thought about it, there was no way that Casey and Artorius would allow him to sleep in the same room as a girl without at least attempting to bother him. Yet they were nowhere to be seen. Furthermore, he could not even hear them in the other room. Actually, he could not hear anything. No bustling bodies packing up belongings, no arguments about leaving,
no
demands for explanations. There was nothing but silence; and at a time like this, silence was not a good sign.

Monson nodded in acknowledgement of Cyann’s observation. She grimaced back. He took the glove out of his pocket and strapped it in place. The tendrils of power connected to his mind with much greater speed. Now he was familiar, thus making their navigation of his body much easier. Once the power lines were in place, Monson quickly read the first five or six spells on the list, memorizing their names. The screen disappeared as soon as he willed it to, surprising him slightly. He pushed that thought aside to focus on the task at hand. Monson placed his hand on the door and flung it open.