The House of Grey- Volume 1 (3 page)

"Fine," she said, "but look anyway."

Monson turned to where Molly pointed. A girl was talking animatedly with a large group of people.

Molly was right; she is pretty smokin'
, Monson thought to himself. Her waves of long golden hair were pulled back into a deliberately messy half-ponytail; a pleasing contrast to her, perfectly proportioned face.
 
She was strikingly gorgeous. Her fashionable dress boasted social conservatism and attested to the fact that not only did she have money, but she occupied a place in high society. Her hands never seemed to be out of place. She smiled at exactly the right moments. She moved and gestured with poise and refinement. She was a proper lady.

Monson looked her up and down a second time and half-smiled. Despite the lady's forceful appeal to modest precepts, and though the simplicity of her dark silken skirt and pure white blouse left much to the imagination, the flow of the material as it enveloped a soft and curvy figure caught the attention of more than one boy in the parking lot.
 
She would have been even prettier if a nasty sneer wasn't etched onto her features.

"She's a cute one," Molly said as they pulled into a parking space on the far side of the
 
lot.

"Is that a question or a statement?" Monson asked, pulling open the door as the car rolled to a stop. "Never mind, it doesn't have anything to do with me."

"You stop that right now. I am expecting you to be social at this school," she said, smiling encouragingly. "They’re going to love you. I mean, how could they not?"

"Yeah, I wonder!" Monson said sarcastically. "How could they not love
me
? I'm so freaking lovable."

"I’m sensing some sarcasm," Molly said, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"I hope so. I’m laying it on pretty thick."

She glared at him, though it wasn't convincing; she was trying not to laugh.

"Anyway, I’ll be right back. Start unloading the car while I go check on something." She strolled toward a building in the center of the parking lot.

Grumbling, Monson put his effort into getting the gate of the minivan open, but stopped when he noticed his reflection. He was quite the sight.

Long, dark, wavy hair hid a once-handsome countenance. Scars, many of them, stretched across his face, vying for dominance with his soft gray eyes, straight nose, and strong jawline. A flicker of movement in the reflection caught his eye. Monson pushed his hair out of his eyes and peered closer. He didn’t see anything but his obvious need for a haircut. His appearance scared most that made his acquaintance, so he let his hair grow, hoping that it might help to hide his scars. He wasn't sure this worked; the hair may have just exacerbated the problem. He had experience with such. One night while still in the hospital, he scared a new nurse out of her skin when he came up behind her in the middle of the night. The woman's right hook narrowly missed the side of his jaw. He actually had to pin her against the wall before she would listen to him.  

"You aren't going to hurt me, are you?" He could still remember how her voice quivered with fear.

"Hurt you?" his reply came back. "You were the one who tried to hit me."

After a few minutes of explanation he let go of her. She stared at him.

"I'm sorry," her voice came. The fear was still prevalent. "I didn't realize who you were."

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

"You're the one, aren't you?" Her tone changed. "You're the one from Baroty Bridge."

"Yeah, that's the rumor, isn't it?"

"What's your name?"

He walked away from her. She called after him.

"Wait," she pleaded. "Don't go, I didn't . . . mean to offend—"

"You didn't offend me."

"Then why—"

He turned back to look at her. "I can't tell you what I don't remember."

He never saw that nurse again.

It was not a pleasant exchange, but that experience taught him a valuable lesson.  His past life, what he knew of it, was gone. Things were different now. While he had been forced to learn a life lesson, an important one, it was one that was better learned sooner rather than later.

He remembered his name now, but in many ways he was like a clean slate with bits of himself reappearing on occasion. There was much he could not remember about his life. Pieces of himself still felt lost, and yet he did not suffer from depression like many would expect. He didn't know any different; he didn't know what it was like to be treated kindly by strangers, so he didn't bother worrying about it. Now, he worked with the situation that life presented to him, careful to notice if he was making anyone uncomfortable, but never backing down because of his appearance.

Monson noticed a group of students passing his van. They looked older, probably upperclassmen. Their gazes shifted over him as if he was part of the landscape, until one of them, a portly girl with frumpy brown hair, stopped to mentally register what she was looking at. She grabbed her nearest companion and spun her toward Monson. They looked like they were going to be sick.

Monson ignored them and switched his attention back to the van’s gate as he moved mindlessly; his focus was not really on what he was doing. His thoughts strayed to the blonde girl.
 
She really was a beauty. He might not be able to talk to her, but he could watch. That was more than he was able to do in the hospital, and that was something.

Monson smiled, pulled out his bags, and stacked them. He wondered idly what his teachers were like and what kind of friends he would make, assuming of course that he made any at all. Monson never had many friends out in the country. Well, maybe he had lots of friends, but he couldn't remember them. No one had visited him in the hospital, so he assumed that he didn't. It was kind of a depressing thought.

After ten minutes or so, Monson was able to get his luggage and various belongings from the different
 
locations inside the van. It was absolutely amazing how much stuff could scatter within the limited space.

Monson did a quick scan, only to see a long cloth pouch that until then had failed to catch his attention. Monson grabbed it and was surprised. Whatever was inside was hard, heavy, and from what he could feel through the plush covering, curiously smooth. A familiar ache tingled in Monson's fingers. Excited, he pulled open the pouch and removed a highly polished stick.

This was not what Monson had expected.

The wood was smooth and extremely dense, which led Monson to believe it was probably made of some sort of tough wood, like cherry or oak. At first, Monson thought it was a cane or some forgotten decoration, but a slight curve in the construction put that theory to rest.

Monson brought the stick to eye level.

Around three and a half feet long and two inches in diameter, the stick had a handle that was a fraction thicker than the rest of it. It ran straight up for a few inches where it met the blade, then the whole thing curved back slightly as it reached its tip. The wood was dark and a lot heavier than it looked. Monson took the stick in a double-fisted grip and swung it.

Strange. This funny stick was . . . was like . . . a sword or something. Thoughts, images and sensations swept through him:  the touch of steel, the strain of aching muscles, and the feeling of the elements, fire, wind, water and earth. The sensations vanished as quickly as they arrived, while Monson stared at the wooden sword.

Fascinating, Monson thought. Now what on earth are you doing here?

Monson tensed as a sensation prickled his neck. Straining his ears, his only warning was a
whoosh
before he heard footsteps directly behind him. He reacted instinctively, raising the polished stick and flinging it over his shoulder, almost like a knight grabbing for a shoulder-slung sword. There was a smack as the wood made contact with some unknown object.  Monson's body again reacted as he arched his back slightly, slid with a fluid grace, and spun to face his attacker.

There was a
 
boy standing in front of him holding a stick similar to the one in Monson's hand. He held it in a neutral position with a thoroughly shocked look on his face.
 
Monson gave him an appraising look and thought, with a sense of shock that mirrored the boy’s, that this person couldn't be a student; he could hardly be considered an adolescent. He was too big, too
well muscled
, and had too much facial hair.  They continued to gape at each other, neither of them moving or saying a word.

The stranger was a rugged fellow, tall and muscular with short, reddish-blond hair, light green eyes, and well-kept stubble.  He wore nice clothing: a blue button-up with tan linen slacks pressed to perfection, accessorized with a white gold Rolex. A highly polished stick, much like Monson's, dropped to his side as he stared with a dimwitted expression.

"Wait a minute, you aren't Casey! Sorry about that — thought you were someone else."

Monson couldn't help it. He laughed. The boy looked slightly embarrassed and on the verge of apologizing again. Monson spoke before he could.

"I would hate to see what you do to people you actually know," Monson said, gesturing to the stick in the boy's hand. "What would have happened if I hadn't blocked it?"

"I think it's probably better that we don't think about it," the boy said.

The boy's eyes, which appeared slightly cloudy, went a little wide, like he was coming out of some sort of trance.  Monson knew that he was looking at his messed-up face and just now noticing with whom he was talking.

"You look like you got in a fight with a meat grinder and lost."

Monson laughed again.
That
was unexpected.

"At least I have an excuse," Monson shot back, "which is more than I can say for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Monson's answer was lost to a loud voice that echoed behind the larger boy.

"EN GARDE!" 

"What in the—" Monson moved in a jerky and abrupt fashion. He hadn't sensed this one; he was caught totally off-guard. Monson reacted quickly, ducking and rolling to his side out of harm's way. He looked up in time to see a second boy quickly traverse the distance between them.

Luckily for Monson, the new boy had apparently found his target: the larger redheaded boy.
 
Wood cracked as the boys threw their weight into their respective attacks. A flurry of movement coupled with laughter resounded as the onslaught commenced.

The first boy, the redhead, was fending off some rapid blows from the much smaller newcomer. What this new boy lacked in size he made up for in pure speed and spirit. Moving from pose to pose with rapid succession, his style, which seemed to change from time to time, was wild but powerful and extraordinarily effective. The larger boy fought valiantly but was slowly overpowered. Monson found the contest before him exciting, which caused him to look down at the stick in his hand.

Have I done this before?

A whistle from the direction of the fight interrupted his reverie. The large boy, still fending off attacks, whistled and then gestured toward Monson's right hand. Monson knew immediately what he was asking for and took aim, flicking his stick toward the scuffle.

Exhibiting some fine agility, the redhead caught the stick.
 
New life entered him as he renewed his offense and took his attacker by surprise. With a great deal of finesse he started to counterattack with a double-handed fencing style, spinning and slicing through the air like a human food processor.

Notwithstanding-, Monson could tell the conclusion was pretty much inevitable; the smaller attacker was just too fast for his larger opponent. The duel concluded in a dramatic disarmament by the newcomer. With a few parries and thrusts, Monson saw the redhead's
 
sticks fly far overhead and hit the ground with a loud clang.

"Got you, Arthur," the new boy said, landing the tip of the stick on the former's throat. "That's one for me. It appears you're in for a bad year."

"Don't get cocky, Casey!" Arthur shot back angrily. "First day of school
and
you were lucky. You caught me off-guard."

The new boy laughed. Turning around, he looked toward Monson. Dressed in expensive denim and a polo shirt, he was handsome, but for some reason the style didn't suit him. 

His features were normal enough, with dirty blond hair, a soft jawline, and smooth eyebrows. Yes, he was quite normal except for the eyes: They seemed a bit large for his face, almost like his mom had mated with a bat. Monson could tell that the boy came from money, just like the cute blonde girl, but the effect of the expensive clothes was lost in the sweaty figure standing before him. Another unexpected detail: The boy's hands were rough and callused, worn and heavy with use. Monson was impressed. This boy knew a hard day's work. Monson watched as he lobbed his mock sword from hand to hand. It looked very much at home.

"Who's the new guy?" asked the boy called Casey, gesturing toward Monson. He stared at Monson, narrowing his eyes. "And what happened to his face?"