The House of Grey- Volume 2 Page 2

  It was difficult not to feel a little sorry for Artorius, even if he was being melodramatic.

  “So what’s the plan?” asked Casey, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. He looked both amused and in pain.

  “Well,” said Monson, not really sure what Casey wanted to hear, “I suppose that we should get ready for dinner and —” Monson stopped short as he looked at Casey’s face and guessed what Casey was thinking. “Or we can just try to figure out something to eat here. That works, too.”

  “Yeah.” Casey looked a little flushed. “I think that would be good.”

  Monson smiled at Casey in a very patronizing sort of way before starting to laugh again. Casey threw a couch pillow at him. Monson grabbed a second pillow and was about to lay into him when a commotion outside the apartment interrupted him. They stopped, Casey looking very relieved, and listened to what sounded like someone trying to get in.

  Monson, realizing what the noise was, stood and jogged over to the door.

  He opened it and stepped aside.

  “Hey Brian.”

  “Ah, Master Grey,” said Brian, giving Monson a slight bow. “Perfect timing. Would you be so kind?” He gestured to several large brown paper bags in his arms.

  “Oh, of course.” Monson relieved Brian of one of the heavier-looking bags. He placed it on the counter of his kitchenette, and then sat down again.

  “Hey Bri-guy,” said Casey moving towards the wet bar, followed closely by a still-depressed Artorius. Brian turned towards Casey and Artorius with a smile on his face.

  “Ahh, Master Kay, Master Paine, how nice to see you. I hope I find you both well.”

  Casey smiled with difficulty.

  “I can’t complain.” He paused, adjusting his shoulder, “At least, not too much.”

  “I’m OK,” muttered Artorius. He looked steadily at the ground.

  “You certainly do not appear to be doing well,” said Brian, a knowing look on his face. “Girl problems?”

  “Yeah,” offered Casey, “but not in the way that you'd think.”

  “Yes,” replied Artorius, “in exactly the way that you'd think.”

  Brian smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “Well then, shall we start with you, Master Kay?”

  “Why do we have to start with him?” complained Artorius angrily. The other three turned to gaze at him, both shocked and amused by Artorius’ indignation.

  “Well,” he continued, “Casey merely got his butt kicked by a girl. I have a real problem.”

  “Dude!” said Casey, popping Artorius on the arm. “Not cool! And I don’t know what you’re on about. ‘Serious problem’; give me a break. You did just meet the girl and she lives in the same building, Arthur…THE SAME BUILDING!”

  “It’s meant to be,” harrumphed Artorius, crossing his arms. “Besides, I don’t know what you’re so worked up about. It’s not like you haven’t ever lost a fencing match.” He paused. “And don’t call me Arthur.”

  “Perhaps I can help,” Brian interjected before either Artorius or Casey could continue. They both stopped abruptly. Monson laughed to himself. Brian had a certain way of capturing people’s attention. “Very well, are you three ready to listen?”

  “Hey, don’t toss me into this,” said Monson. “I’m just here for the ride.”

  Artorius and Casey both glared at him. He gazed back wide-eyed, as if to ask, “What I’d say?”

  The three boys shifted their attention to Brian as he zeroed in on Casey. “Right, so it seems that you found yourself in a fencing match and lost. Am I correct?”

  Casey nodded his head in affirmation.

  “Well then, I suppose I am at a loss as to what the problem is.” Brain’s tone was light and friendly; he was obviously trying to placate Casey. “You have fenced before, have you not? You’re bound to lose some matches. That is merely part of the game. Why would that trouble you?”

  “It’s not that I lost,” replied Casey, his eyes slightly distant. “It’s how badly I lost. I couldn’t land a single blow. It’s like the girl was in my head planning my next move for me. I even started to adjust my style and she knew exactly when to counter me—right before I could get into stride. I’ve fenced competitively since I was a kid and studied the mechanics of fencing and fighting all my life, and I have never seen anything like it. It seemed almost inhuman, like she was reading my mind.”

  Adjusted his style? thought Monson, looking down at his hands. That could only mean one thing—the red light. That has to be what Casey was referring to. Does the use of that, what had Casey called it…chakra…constitute a separate style of fighting? Even when using a weapon? Monson paused as he considered that notion. What would have happened if Casey had used a chakra-based attack? Monson didn’t want to think about it.

  It was a good thing that Casey was hurt. If he hadn’t been, he might just have caused a brawl in the middle of the kitchen. Because after his thoroughly honest description of the match, and to his total indignation, Brain started to laugh. It was not vindictive nor did it have any hint of malicious intent; it appeared to be nothing more than amusement.

  “Please calm down,” said Brian, still chuckling. “If you do not, I will refuse to tell you what happened and reveal the reason you lost.”

  Casey, who was now on his feet, sat back down on the barstool but continued glaring at Brian, who just smiled. Artorius finally started to laugh, but with him, it was to be expected.

  “Master Kay,” said Brian, with an air of explaining something very abstract to someone very obtuse. “Do you mind if I wager a guess as to whom you were fighting?”

  That got his attention.

  “Long dark hair, beautiful eyes, very short movements, very smooth, does not smile.”

  All three boys look as dazed as if Brian had just broadsided them with a bus. Casey spoke first.

  “How on earth did you know who…?”

  “Never mind,” said Brian. “The young lady in question, Cyann Harrison, is one of the best fencers I have ever had the pleasure of watching. Master fencers from Japan to Europe in every style possible have traveled to see for themselves the girl’s skill. Do not feel bad, Cassius. That girl is in an entirely different league.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel loads better,” said Casey sarcastically. “What about her style? Do you know who taught her and how she became so good?”

  “Sadly, that is information I do not possess,” said Brian, scratching his chin. “Truth be told, I never considered inquiring further about the matter.”

  Casey looked bothered by that response, but his questions weren’t finished. “While we’re on the subject, why is she using a bokken instead of a shinai? And what about the lack of referee?”

  Brian laughed again. The boys did not see what was so funny.

  “That has caused some controversy among the staff. How amusing that you noticed it.”

  “What's so amusing about not having a referee?” inquired Monson, confused.

  “Please do not misunderstand. The lack of a referee is not the humorous part. The humor comes from the naivety of youth. The combatants fight knowing they could get hurt. Cyann avoids retaining the services of a judge, because she feels that rules are too restricting, that combat should flow freely, that skill will determine the winner—not rules.”

  Monson was still confused. “But what’s funny about that?”

  “The funny part is this: Cyann strikes a deal with the boys who fight her. If they can best her, she agrees to accompany them as they attempt to court her.”

  All three boys shouted, “What?”

  Brian shrugged. “At least, that is what I’m told. Sadly enough, the poor girl remains dateless.”

  “What a weird chick,” said Casey in disbelief. “Well, regardless of what she does to train, she hits like a bull. I’m not going to be able to lift my arm for a week—” He stopped suddenly, horror spreading across his face. “Oh no…this can’t be happening!”

  “What?” asked Artorius. />
  “I can’t believe this! Of all the crappy times this could have happened!”

  “All the times what could have happened?”

  “Tryouts for the Legion are on Monday!” exclaimed Casey. “There is no way I’m gonna be able to play with a bruised shoulder. That…girl just ruined my tryout!”

  Chapter 14- Tryout

  Monson’s next few days were some of the best and worst he had experienced in a while. The good: Casey and Artorius were awesome. He could not have asked for better friends. The bad: Derek Dayton was a terrible, terrible person.

  Derek, who just so happened to be Dean Dayton’s son, was a sort-of rival to “The Diamond,” and an all-around jackass. Monson was not sure what he did to rub Derek the wrong way, but whatever the reason, it was unforgivable in the eyes of Derek and his followers. Monson found out very quickly that he would have to deal with threats and taunts from every direction while walking to classes, during free time, and while eating. And of course, this was all in the midst of trying to navigate Coren’s huge campus and student life. Twice already, he had been the target of a one-sided, rather enthusiastic, food fight, the second of which was so widespread and out of control that the lunch workers called the Dean of Discipline simply to restore order. What followed was both so unreasonable and outrageous that the indignation caused Monson to burn with anger every time he thought of it. The dean whisked Monson off to his office the moment he arrived and forced him to endure twenty minutes of incoherent ranting, during which Monson was not even sure the food fight came up. When the dean finally released him, he saw Derek standing just outside the office with a smirk that should have been punishable by law. All Monson could do was sigh in frustration.

  Derek’s enthusiasm for harassing Monson came to a head when the rumors started. The chosen topic: Baroty Bridge, which Monson from the furtive looks and whispered conversations. Twice he found notes written by students in class that related directly to him and he even found his name Googled on one of the school computers. Most people, in the beginning at least, seemed to understand that Monson was one of the survivors of the disaster and his scars were a result of that tragedy. By the end of the week, however, the rumor making the rounds suggested that Monson was actually working for a foreign intelligence agency, went rogue, and was the one responsible for everything that happened at Baroty Bridge. This was especially stupid because no one knew what had happened at Baroty Bridge. And yet, the rumors continued to escalate.

  The word was out: Derek and his groupies were after the Horum Vir and those who were in the way would get the same treatment.

  The good news was that not everyone cared about Derek's influence. Indigo Harrison was very friendly and took time to talk to Monson, Casey and Artorius (much to Artorius’ delight), whenever possible. Taris Green was usually straightforward as well. Monson wished she wouldn’t be, as her high profile made him nervous and agitated an already tough situation. People—boys, mainly—did not like it when Monson talked to Taris. No one came out and said it, but he knew; it was difficult not to be aware of this.

  Aside from the poor treatment and outlandish rumors, Monson really could not complain. He found two great friends in Artorius and Casey, both of whom made huge efforts to cheer him up. Brian was also trying very hard to be of service, giving Monson advice whenever he asked for it and bringing or making his meals when he did not feel like going to the dinner hall. That is how the first weeks passed—with Monson wedged between friend and foe. He simply endured. It was all he could do.

  One Monday morning, the August sun was delivering a rare gift of warmth and sunshine. Artorius’ private tryout was to be held that evening on one of the smaller fields on Coren’s eastern border. It was a perfect day for football and Monson and Casey were pumped. While Casey had spent the better part of the last couple of days moping around, he quickly got over himself in deference to Artorius.

  At the designated time, the three boys made their way out of The GM towards the field where they were to meet Coach Able and Coach Hawke. When they arrived, a not-so-pleasant surprise was waiting for them. The coaches were there, but they weren’t alone, as about two-dozen of the Legion’s players were with them. The boys were dressed in full gear and looked intimidating. In addition to the fully armored players, there were many spectators on the benches and sidelines. This was turning into quite the production. Coach Hawke approached them, a large grin on his face.

  “Boys, in all of my years of teaching I have never seen the kind of solidarity and mutual understanding I saw just now as you forged your way towards this meeting. I commend you on your—”

  “Hawke!”

  “Yes, Coach Able?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “OK, Grey,” Coach Able looked at Monson. “Let’s see what your boy’s got.”

  “Umm...Coach,” Monson sighed. He had to explain that Casey wasn’t going to be able to participate. This is really gonna suck, he thought to himself.

  “What, Grey?”

  “About the tryout…you see, Casey got hurt a few days ago….”

  “Oh yes,” Coach Able smirked, looking around at the players. “We all heard about his run-in with Harrison.” With a great deal of mock concern he continued, “I hope that Cyann wasn’t too hard on you.”

  It pretty much went downhill from there. Monson had a tough time restraining Casey from jumping on the one man who could single-handedly destroy any chance he had at an athletic career. Meanwhile, Artorius was pumping himself up, readying his mind to confront players who were not only three years his senior, but also looked like they suffered from extended steroid use.

  Coach Able turned to Artorius. He looked him up and down, leveling a beady, analytical eye at him.

  “Paine, is it? Arthur Paine?”

  Artorius grimaced at the sound of his given name. He didn’t say anything, however, but just nodded his head.

  “All right, Paine. Suit up,” Coach pointed to a building entrance labeled “Locker Room.”

  Artorius ran towards the locker room while Monson and Casey tensely waited for him to return. Encased in full football gear, he settled in with a big group of players kneeling around Coach Able.

  “OK, gentlemen,” said Coach Able, rubbing his hands together. “We're gonna split up into two teams: blue shirts and gold shirts, full offense and defense, quarterbacks in red. I want to see a three-deep stack with rotations every two downs. This is the real deal. Let me see it!”

  While Monson had no idea why, he did not know the first thing about football. But even he could tell that Artorius’ team was at a disadvantage from the start. From what little he did know, he gathered they were doing a fourth-down start from the twenty-yard line and switching back and forth from offense to defense — or something like that. Artorius was playing something called a middle linebacker while on defense. The linebacker acted as a sort of second guard to the row of linemen at the line of scrimmage, which, indecently, was an invisible line that people weren’t allowed to cross until the game was put into play. The reason for this escaped Monson but it was what it was. When playing offense, Artorius was a fullback. After one of the large players called a center hiked the ball, a guy called the quarterback stood back behind a wall of massive players engaged in blocking the oncoming defense and either passed the ball or handed it off to someone like a fullback who ran towards the “end zone.” This end zone acted as a sort of goal for scoring points. Besides all of that, it did not really seem too difficult to follow.

  Monson and Casey watched from a small set of bleachers in the exact middle of the field, not far from the sideline.

  “Hey boys, what’s up?” Indigo Harrison cheerfully greeted them as she sat down on the other side of Casey.

  Casey turned toward Monson, giving him a stern look that plainly said that he did not want to deal with her right now. It looked like it was going to be up to Monson to carry the conversation.

  “Indigo,” he said in what he
hoped was a light and friendly voice. “And to what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “Pleasure? Why Hero, what do you mean by that?”

  There was a rather devious tone in her voice.

  “It’s an expression,” said Monson, annoyed and still not looking at her.

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Indigo.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Monson leaned out in front of Casey so he could look at her, hoping to instill by glance alone his annoyance. The problem was, it was not Indigo who was looking back.

  “Cyann?”

  Now that was unexpected. Cyann was sitting next to Casey with Indigo leaning out from behind her. Casey was still oblivious to who was next to him.

  “You remember my name. Impressive.” She looked at him with a guarded expression. “How are you?”

  “I aim to please,” said Monson in a rather forced way. “And I’m good. How about yourself?” He suddenly felt awkward and didn’t know why. Casey finally realized that Cyann was sitting next to him and stared at her while she spoke.

  “I’m OK,” she said simply. She turned to Casey. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. I didn’t get the chance to ask while—”

  “While you were pounding the crap out of me?” Casey glared at her.

  “I would hardly call that ‘pounding the crap out of you.’ I only hit you once and it wasn’t even that hard.”

  “Not even that hard?” Casey tone was one of outrage. “I’ve been sore for days. If you didn’t hit me that hard, then what’d you do? Some kind of African voodoo to make my muscles melt?”

  Monson busted into laugher. It was obvious, however, that neither Casey nor Cyann thought it was funny. They both looked at him.

  “OK, I know you’re all serious and stuff,” he glanced back and forth between them, “But you have to admit that was funny.”

  “I thought it was funny,” said Indigo, again with her devious grin.

  Both Cyann and Casey gave her irritated looks before turning their attention back to the game.