The House of Grey- Volume 5 (26 page)

Marques Grey sighed heavily. “Monson, lines have been drawn, alliances made; we need to move quickly before it is too late. I am your grandfather, your blood. You need to listen to me, not to some woman you barely know.”

Molly interrupted him, her voice quiet but penetrating. “The question that you have to ask yourself, Monson, is this: Would Marques Grey, your grandfather, actually sacrifice innocent people in pursuit of some untested technology, or better yet—would he sacrifice them in pursuit of anything?”

Monson ran a hand through his hair. “Molly, you know I can’t answer that. I don’t remember my grandfather.”

“The secrets rest with me, Monson,” cut in Marques. “Join me. It is the only real option you have.”

He pointed to the people around the room. “Cattle, these things are cattle. They are the lowest of the Seven Great Races but they hold themselves
up
as masters of the universe, acting like gods when they are in fact so powerless. Despite this, I am trying to help them, trying to keep something much worse from occurring. But the only way for that to happen is if you get in this chair and undergo the procedure.”

Monson, standing at a crossroad of loyalties, looked between the only two people who had ever really counted as family. He examined their faces and demeanors but found no answers, no inkling of the truth. He had no idea what to believe. Monson replayed the conversation in his head; everything that the two had said in their brief verbal battle. He could not make rhyme or reason out of any of it. They were battling for his loyalty, but why?
Because of the Being of Seven Bloods?
Because he was family?
Because he was evil?
Was Marques Grey truly standing in front of him? Was Molly lying? He just did not know and he had no way to find out.

He again gazed at the sight of blood from the wounded
,
which caused something to stand out above all that had been said during the last thirty minutes. It was a point that Monson had almost missed; that signaled to him like a brightly lit lighthouse. He said the word aloud to give it meaning.

“Blood…my blood…you are not my blood.” A bubble of anger resurfaced.

“My name might be Monson Grey, but I was not born that way; I was not born into the House of Grey. You are not my blood.”

Marques Grey narrowed his eyes at the implication, realizing his critical mistake.

“I see,” he said. “So be it.”

Monson had almost been taken for a fool and now he knew it.

He again glanced at Molly, just now noticing the encroaching commandos. Marques Grey stared on, appearing unconcerned.

Monson walked over to Molly. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“It’s OK. Monson honey, are you ready?”

“I am, but how are we going to get out of this?”

“Don’t you worry; I’ll take care of that.”

Monson took deep, steadying breaths, attempting to not immediately attack the man he now knew was merely claiming to be his grandfather. “If you say so. You do realize we’re outnumbered like fifty to one, right?”

“You are so cute when you’re worried.” Molly hugged him, her hands jerking behind his back as
she whispered
a single phrase. “Combat Spell Eleven: Tiny
Tremors.”

A small earthquake shook everyone in the room senseless, the vibrations causing mass panic. Molly and Monson alone seemed unaffected by the teetering floor. All sorts of destruction ensued as paintings, statues and equipment crashed to the ground, sending shards of debris in every direction. Molly and Monson made their move as soon as the floor stopped shaking. They raced back towards the stage and their only means of escape.

Large blasts from the commandos’ hand cannons shot in their direction. Burning balls of trembling fire flew parallel to streaking four-foot daggers of ice and rock. Right behind these elemental missiles were blade-wielding commandos, all sprinting their
way.
Molly bellowed a second phrase, hitting her hands, “Combat Spell Fifteen: Box of Protection.”

The missiles slammed into a rock wall that shot up from the floor, causing more debris to pepper the area.

“It looks like we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.” Molly’s fingers slashed through the air, leaving traces of magical runes in front of them. After a brief pause, she stuck out her hand, plunging it forward, her arm disappearing completely up to the elbow. It was as if she had submerged her hand in water. Ripples emanated from a mirrored, liquid surface at the point where her arm breached the plane. An expression of intense concentration found its way on-to Molly’s face, which captured Monson’s attention so fully, he barely heard her uttered phrase.

“River’s Serenity.”

Several more blasts from the commandos’ guns struck the rock wall, ripping off some large chunks and hurling them into the air. Molly pulled a dark blue-tinted blade from the liquid space as a chunk of rock three feet across fell from overhead. Monson’s warning call was lost in the report of cannon fire.

A flash of cooling mist sprinkled over Monson and he opened his eyes. He watched as the rock split in two.

Molly called out to Monson authoritatively, speaking to him in a way he had never heard from her.

“You retreat before he comes for you. I don’t know what he needs you for, but—”

Molly stopped talking and coughed up a great deal of blood.

“Molly!” called out Monson. “What happened? Why are you…?”

It was then that he noticed the tip of the blade protruding from Molly’s chest. Monson’s heart pumped so loudly that it seemed to drown out all other sound. He could not hear the gun blasts, the angry shouting, the crumbling rock; he could not hear anything. Molly’s eyes spoke of unspeakable pain and certain loss. Small tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, starting to run as she looked over her shoulder. She gnashed her teeth as the blade slid from her chest. Monson’s guardian slowly dropped to her knees, revealing the face of a sneering Marques Grey holding a Magi Blade.

“You Magi trainees always take too long to cast your blade.” He ran a gloved hand over the blade, wiping from hilt to tip. The Breath of the Dragon sizzled as his hand caressed its surface. He looked down at the dying woman. “You should not have messed with my plans. This world is mine and I will destroy anyone who stands in my way.”

Marques Grey turned his attention on Monson. He stalked forward, moving through the air, chilling it with his deadly intent. Monson stared up at the face of a devil
that was partially hidden by the curve of his deeply hooded cloak.

Monson shook his head uncomprehendingly. The man before him was not wearing a cloak! But then why had he seen a cloak?

Then it hit him. Monson recognized the man standing in front of him. Not the face of Marques Grey, but the smile of a dark, cloaked man; a smile that he had seen repeatedly during his personal nighttime hell. The replay of a recurring dream flipped on before his eyes.

A dark, cloaked man walked towards the defeated and battered form of a second man lying on the ground. Cruel eyes lit up and were thrown into stark relief by the glow of an object…
a blade…a Magi Blade. The black-cloaked man walked to where the second man lay on the ground, panting. He raised his arm to strike.

The vision cleared right as Marques Grey’s blade started its decent towards Monson’s head.

Monson caught the blade, his hands glowing with a nimbus of light. The dual quality returned to his voice, as if
he
were
two people talking in complete synchronicity
.

“I’ve found you.” 

Thanks for reading!

Join Monson and the crew in the finale of Arc 1 of
The House of Grey in Volume 6
.

Tell your friends, your teachers, your family members,

and
your hair stylist
-
this is one you won’t want to miss.

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