The House of Grey- Volume 6 (19 page)

Monson gritted his teeth. “The question? What
is
it with you people and your enigmatic
warnings? How can I find the answer when I don’t even know the question?”
 

Marques Grey looked skyward, a serene expression on his face. Monson rubbed at his eyes. Marques was evanescing, still visible but becoming more and more translucent. “But you do know the question, Monson Grey.
y
ou have been asking since you were old enough to wonder.”
 

Monson’s brow furrowed as he attempted to understand. Marques laughed again, the noise taking on the quality of a fading echo. “You’ve been asking the same question ever since I found you in the streets of New York when you were four. You know it even now.”
 

The phrase passed through Monson’s lips involuntarily as he closed his eyes and mentally feasted upon the revelation. “Who
am
I?
t
he ultimate question is: Who am I?”
 

Monson opened his eyes when no one answered. Upon doing so he realized that he was alone and that his body was glowing brilliantly.
 

“No! Don’t go yet!” pleaded Monson. “I still have questions, things to say.
p
lease not yet.”
 

The voice of his grandfather lazily floated towards him, accompanying a cool evening breeze.
 

“I love you, my boy.
r
emember to protect that which is most important to you.”
 

Monson hung his head as he held back the tears. He took a deep breath and screamed a scream that shook the very core of his world.
 

***

Monson awoke to the feeling of warmth and the sweet smell of lavender. “You’re awake,” spoke a voice situated right next to his ear. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
 

“How long was I out?”
 

“Only a few minutes.
G
ibson called for reinforcements a few moments ago. They’re gathering up some of the destroyed equipment. They said I could sit with you; I think they’re coming to heal you.”
 

“Why would our enemy come and heal me?”
 

Hair brushed against Monson’s face.
h
e realized that his head was in Cyann’s lap and that she was shaking her head. “I told them that it was the price of me going quietly. I still have Damion’s blade with me. So Mr. Gibson offered me a deal: If I go with him, he would heal your wounds. Though it doesn’t look like you need healing now.”
 

Monson’s eyes shut even tighter as emotion once more swept over him. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

He shifted his back slightly, trying to get a feel for the extent of his injuries. “I can’t feel any pain.”
 

“Weren’t you listening? I just said they didn’t need to heal you. There isn’t any pain because there isn’t a wound anymore.”
 

Monson shifted around some more. “How could that be? He cut me, I know he did.”

Cyann shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.
b
ut never mind that. We need to figure out a plan. They’re gonna kill Mr. Gatt and Brian. Something about sending a message.”
 

Monson sighed. “I know, but what do we do?
I
don’t think I can beat him, not like this.”
 

“You can.”
 

Monson shook his head slightly. “You saw our last fight. I have an incomplete style, remember?”
 

“Monson, only a coward blames his style for his failure.”

“Are you saying there’s some other reason?”

“No, I’m just saying that you shouldn’t blame your fighting style. It’s a moot point, anyway.”

“How is it a moot point?
I
still can’t beat him.”

Monson felt fingers touch his eyes. He opened them instinctively. Cyann whispered. “If you find that you are lacking something—experience, courage, ability…whatever it may be–then you do what it takes to find what you lack. In your case....”

Monson felt something press against his left hand. He glanced downward to see Damion Peterson’s River’s Serenity. He looked up at Cyann, who was smiling.
 

“In your case,” she repeated, “if you find that you’re lacking a weapon, all you have to do is find one.”
 

Monson grinned, then again tensed his body, ready to pounce. “Where’s Gibson?”

“Directly in front of us.”
 

“Can you stand and run?”

“Not really.
b
ut don’t worry; they aren’t going to do anything to me, at least not yet.”
 

Monson nodded as he stood up, surprising the soldiers who were milling around them. Monson let out a war cry. “GIBSONNNNNNN!”
 

Gibson, standing not fifty feet away, whipped around and looked at Monson with both amazement and outrage. The air flashed red as he returned to his gray-skinned state. Monson stepped forward, calling upon his Breath of the Dragon. The blade answered his call with apparent enthusiasm reaching him
at a breakneck
speed.
h
e caught it with a flourish and walked calmly forward, Damion’s River’s Serenity tucked in on his left with a backhand grip and the Breath of the Dragon held aggressively in his right hand, out in front. Finally, Monson could fight properly.
 

Monson walked right up to Gibson, the black-suited commandos moving out of his way as they saw the two Magi Blades. He stopped a few feet away from Gibson, who had conjured his golden blade. “Two different makes of the Magi Blades? Are you mad, boy? Do you want to have your soul torn–”
 
Monson did not waste any time on conversation; he attacked. But the difficulty of wielding both blades was pronounced. The effects of the Breath of the Dragon and the River’s Serenity coupled with the Dance of Fire and Ice were almost foreign to him. The Breath of the Dragon wanted to move Monson and strike with greater ferocity while the River’s Serenity wanted to remain within a flow—simple, stable, but ever changing.

There was so much power to behold in these two weapons that it was altogether overwhelming to wield more than one. The fight, for Monson, was as much in his mind as it was in his body. Anger battled compassion while wrath railed against the calming effects of acceptance. To hold the two Magi Blades for an extended period was to exist in two different spiritual and emotional settings simultaneously.
i
t was like trying to be both calm and angry. The sensation was difficult, yet Monson gained ground and completed Ja-no moves that had before eluded him.

His timing was still not perfect but was much closer to the original intent of the maneuvers, many of which actually made sense now. Aaron Gibson was still a formidable opponent, but in the end, Monson and his newfound power would not be denied.

Monson alternated blows from the red and blue blades, twisting into Gibson’s flow and hitting him with a four-point combination that Gibson did not see coming. With a final spin, the River’s Serenity slashed upwards, catapulting the golden sword into a floating arc. Monson completed the move, the Breath of the Dragon cutting the now-exposed Gibson across the arm and chest. He fell back with a clatter.

Monson stood over Aaron Gibson poised to strike, with both the River’s Serenity and the Breath of the Dragon held in a scissor position right at the base of Gibson’s neck.
 

“Impossible,” Gibson spat as he winced in pain. “Using another’s blade…preposterous. Absolutely–”

“Tell your replications to stand down.” Monson gestured at the commandos lingering around them. “I know that you can.”
 

Gibson lifted his fingers, causing Monson to inch the blades closer. A simple flick of his wrists and Gibson would be done for.
 

“If you try anything...,” Monson warned.
 

Gibson chuckled. “You do not have it in you, boy.
d
o you think you can execute an unarmed person? Do not kid yourself into thinking you are something you are not. Despite the knowledge that it was I who caused everything suffered here today and on the bridge, not to mention the death of your grandfather, you are still a child; you cannot kill me because you do not have the courage to take on the burden of this war.”

Some primitive, instinctual part of Monson wanted to bring the blades together. Anger turned into bloodlust, which slowly turned into…hate. Monson Grey hated this man. The hate burned at his very soul.

It felt just like the unnatural, ever-burning bloodlust that wallowed deep within him. The anger, bloodlust and hate mixed with one another, washing over him and making his vision go blurry.

His vision cleared to see a pair of silver eyes that wanted only for Monson to strike this now-defenseless man sitting in front of him. The gaze grew in intensity.
t
he death of this man was not the only thing these eyes wanted.
t
hey wanted Monson to conquer the rest of Coren, the rest of the world. To dominate and reign with blood and horror. The eyes showed him the way to do it.

A voice Monson recognized boomed in his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

You know me now...it is my time...let me out....

A warm hand touched his arm as a soothing voice snapped him back.

“You’ve done your part, Monson,” Taris whispered.
 

“Let yourself go,” added Cyann. “Your friends will take care of the rest.”
 

The anger surged once more, attempting one last push, but then floated away bit by bit with each successive breath. With a final deep, cleansing exhale, the eyes released him completely. Monson removed his blades from either side of Gibson’s throat, only to have unfamiliar silver
-
clad figures move in and seize the gray-skinned man.

Monson took a good look around him. The
field of battle
was teeming with life again. The H.U.M.A.N.E. fighters were there in force, pointing weapons at black-clad prisoners and helping the injured.

He heard another familiar voice, but this one brought relief. 

“Well done, Mr. Grey.” Mr. Gatt nudged in next to him. “Now I suggest that you release the two Magi Blades.
u
sing more than one of these is very dangerous, even with the added precaution of using a blade forged of another’s substance. The blades have exhausted you.
a
nything more could be hazardous
for us all. Just allow me....”

Mr. Gatt pulled the River’s Serenity from Monson’s grasp.
t
he action brought Monson fully back to reality. He was so tired he wanted to sleep for a week. His whole body hurt and he still had things to do. Like take care of Molly, for one....

More bright light assaulted the gathered group. Gibson, in a storm of crackling Kei, floated several feet in the air, his gray skin gone, replaced with slick feline features. His voice took on a musical quality. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, boy.”
 

Gibson’s scripted spell was dozens of runes long, one right after another in blinding succession. Monson reacted on instinct, calling upon his own Kei and scripting a spell, which let loose a rage of churning wind that threw all in his vicinity away from him to supposed safety.
 
Gibson then let loose a spell of pure energy with no apparent
affinity to any element
. Monson raised his remaining blade, hoping that the Breath of the Dragon could withstand such a shock.

It did not come. The spell veered, and it was then that he realized that he was not the target.
 

Time stopped for him. Stopped though events, the destruction, continued to unfold in real-time. Monson willed himself to move at an unfathomable speed, dropping the Breath of the Dragon in his haste. He jumped in front of Cyann to shield her with his body. This had to be; it was the only way.

She surprised him by throwing her arms around his neck and gripping him firmly. She whispered something in his ear, something incomprehensible.
t
hen she spun them both around and pushed him away.

“No!” he screamed.

The beam hit its mark, lighting up the figure of its intended target. Monson changed his momentum and was there to catch her as she fell, her body going strangely limp. He tried to shake her as piercing laughter stabbed its way into his head.
 

“Hey, come on, this isn’t funny.” He jostled her again, this time harder. “Hey, seriously, stop it.”
 

Monson touched her face and...felt nothing…nothing but cold. “Dammit, this isn’t funny! Stop pretending you can’t hear me—stop acting like you’re–”
 

He broke off as his shattered and destroyed reality came crashing down all around him.