The House of Grey- Volume 3 (6 page)

“No, I don’t suspect that she did.” Damion’s tone suddenly became very serious. “For some reason, the FBI seems to think that you are the key to cracking the case; that there’s something that you know that could lead them to the people who…who did that. It’s been quite the fight behind the scenes. There’s a case going through the courts right now in hopes of gaining permission to talk to you without your beast of a lawyer.”

“Well, Molly is right. I don’t remember a thing before a couple of months ago.”

Monson said this without thinking.

“Really? No details at all? You don’t know anything about what happened?”

Monson shook his head.

“You’ve seen the guest list
-
at least, the partial one?”

Monson nodded. He had seen that in his research online.

“None of those names ring a bell?”

“No
-
”

“You don’t remember a dozen or more fools with guns and a straight up killing spree of civilians before the bridge was destroyed?”

“No. I don’t remember any of that. And how do you know if there were armed men or not?” 

Damion’s face turned beet red. He pulled out a flask from inside his jacket. He took a swig and coughed. “You know, for what it’s worth, Monson, I’m sorry for all this. Simply a matter of the wrong place and the wrong time.”

Monson barely heard him. “Damion, back up a moment. There aren’t any reports of any sort of weaponry or other combat equipment found in the debris. Where did you hear there were armed men?”

“I just did, Monson. Trust me. I have it on very good authority. Not that it matters now. It’s time to go.”

Monson paused at this. “Damion, please back up. How could you possibly know if there were armed men or not? The only way you could know that is…if
-
if you…were there
-
”

It was then that the knife in Damion’s other hand came into view.

It happened so fast. The flash of steel, the feverish motion of bodies, the clatter of falling stools. An exploding, burning sensation deep from within Monson erupted as a demon-eyed Damion plunged a gleaming silver blade into him. Monson stared blankly as the life ran from his chest. With the blade protruding from him, he started to slump towards the floor.

Voices in the back of Monson’s mind, Casey’s…or maybe Artorious’

“Someone might be trying to kill you…”

Monson was unable to feel his legs. “It was
you
…it was you all along…”

Damion stared at the ground, his face settling into sadness as he closed his eyes. He struggled with his words. “It was me, and I
am
sorry it ended this way. I tried to make it look like an accident. But I’m not great at this. If it’s any consolation I wasn’t lying about coming to see you in the hospital. I wanted to be your friend, but
-
but
he
got in the way. He wants everything for himself, and you’re in his way.”

Monson tried to talk. He managed to cough out, “But…why…kill me?”

The voice rippling out from Damion was so harsh it grated on the ears. “Who said it was him who wanted you dead?”

It did not sound like Damion.

He laughed a malicious cackle, deep, dark and sinister. Monson watched, incredulous, as Damion’s face began to melt and the twisted, dripping shape morphed into Monson’s former unscarred countenance. A deafening crash ripped through the air as the walls of the weight room crumbled to dust. Equipment, dumbbells, TVs, and mirrors were dashed into a billion pieces as Monson saw the ceiling ripped asunder, and what was left of the room open to the wicked night sky. He stared up in horror as the floor sank and the bloody light of the crescent moon spotlighted his decent into the darkness.

Black

Swirling clouds of blackened thick.

I awake from the foggy mists to a world,

The world of death and gore.

I put forth my hand and grasp a blade

In the world of death and gore

A blade of light, a blade broke through might.

It asks me,

It begs me,

It commands me,

Fight.

My blade and I move amongst downed bodies, all fallen in the field

The field of death and gore.

I look.

I see.

I behold.

Foes.

In the house of death and gore.

A challenger comes before me.

A day of judgment.

A day of reckoning.

A day of death.

In the house of death and gore.

His fear,

It clings to me.

It exhilarates me.

It liberates me.

He will die,

In this room of death and gore.

There is no place for fear.

There is no place for pity.

There is no place for tears.

Not in the room of death and gore.

A Sword in his hand, he holds upright,

I cleave down.

My opponent falls.

My opponent is gone.

He will journey no more,

From this place of death and gore.

Others come.

Others appear.

Their fates all remain the same.

To forget.

To be forgotten,

Left,

In the time of death and gore.

A man appears before me; in him I recognize,

My reason,

For fighting.

For killing.

For being.

In this world of death and gore

I attack this man with righteous might.

Long lasting, the duel clashes

Deep into this scarlet night.

In this being of death and gore.

We fight!

A flash of Gray

A flash of Silver

A flash of Gold

All come to a head in blades of black and white.

I strike this man.

And come to know...

I will not prevail, nor overcome,

As this man...is me.

***

“As this man…is me.”

Monson abruptly awoke, sensing another’s presence. His hand shot out with blazing speed, catching the arm of…Cyann Harrison.

Wait…where am I?

Lifting his head, he scanned his surroundings. He lay at the base of a massive oak tree. In the distance, he could see a portion of the back of the Battlegrounds.

“Monson?”

Cyann’s voice sounded pained. Monson grimaced.  He had almost forgotten she was there, and realized he was still holding her arm in a vice grip. The sound of Cyann’s shallow breathing and her slightly red face alerted him to the fact that he was hurting her. He immediately released her.

“Where is Damion? Did he bring me out here?”

“Damion? As Damion Peterson?” Cyann cocked her head in bafflement. “I haven’t seen anyone but you, Monson.”

No…that couldn’t be right. His gaze shot downward, searching his body for injuries. That knife strike should have been fatal
-
he should be dead! His mind was so fuzzy he could not think clearly. Monson slowly sat up and did his best to sharpen his senses as he continued to examine himself.  He found no signs of injury: no holes or blood. He looked around him and listened. There were no fallen bodies or gory scenes, no agonizing sounds of the dead, but Monson was afraid to let his guard down. Was he awake? Was this real? There was only the normal campus scenery and Cyann Harrison, whose expression was becoming more and more perplexed as the minutes passed.  Damion was surely nowhere to be seen.

Was it all a dream?
Or did Damion really try to kill me?
Monson’s thoughts came to a halt as he suddenly noticed Cyann’s arm; the bruised imprint of a hand was manifesting itself on her olive skin. 

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.” He meant it. Shame was already gurgling in his stomach. He wanted to explain, to tell her why. Make her understand that it was not her fault that he was…was…. he did not actually know what he was.

“It’s OK.” Cyann’s voice was gentle and soothing in a way that he had not known was possible, especially coming from her. “Are
you
OK?”

“Am I OK?” he asked. The question confused him. Why would she ask that?

“Yes. Are you all right?” Cyann pointed to where he was sitting. “You looked like you were having a pretty nasty dream.”

She was concerned because she thought he was having a bad dream? He was not sure how to react. Was she making fun of him? Everyone has bad dreams. Why would she worry about his?

“I’ll live.” His voice sounded slightly suspicious. “Comes with the territory. You know, being an ‘emo’ and all.”

“What’s an emo?”

His face contorted as he realized what he had just done. “Emo” was a word that many anime watchers used to describe an overly emotional individual. He had seen it used several times by Casey and Artorius on the various forums they frequented. But it was not a word he would use, and he could not believe he had just uttered it in conversation.

“Never mind,” he said. He searched for something to else to talk about. “What time is it?”

Cyann glanced at the watch on her wrist.

“Four-thirty.”

Where had the time gone?  “Really?”

She nodded her head.

What about Casey? Where did he end up?

Or was that all part of the dream too?

“What are you doing back here anyway?” she asked, her tone light but once again guarded.

“It’s a long story,” he said. What more could he really say?

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Monson fired back.

“While we’re on the subject, why are
you
back here?”

“I always take this way home.” She gestured towards the forest. “There’s a trail that takes you towards the river and along its banks for a bit. It ends near The Barracks. It’s a lot quieter than the normal path, so I take it whenever possible.”

“Trying to keep a low profile, huh?”

Cyann’s lush blue eyes bore into him. “Something like that.”

She rubbed lightly at the place where he had grabbed her. She was trying to act tough, but it clearly was bothering her. The sick feeling welled up again. He had to say something.

“I know I already said this, but I’m really sorry that I hurt you. I promise, I didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t need to explain. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Again, her tone was calming. “You just surprised me. You’re a lot stronger than you look.”

“Surprised?” he asked. Strong was not a word he would have used to describe himself.

“Yeah, a little.” She looked away from him. “Can I ask you something?”

He raised an eyebrow as she pushed her dark hair out of her eyes. When she spoke, her voice held a hint of amusement. She pointed at his expression. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He smiled and nodded, indicating his approval.

“Did you write this?”

She proffered a yellow notebook that he recognized as Casey’s. He stared at her in bewilderment.

“What are you doing with Casey’s screenplay?”

“What do you mean?” Her confusion was as palpable as Monson’s. “I took this from you. I figured it had to be important. I mean, you were half-asleep, but still managed to grab my arm with your steel trap of a grip. It seemed like you were protecting it or something.

“It is important.” He took the book from her. “It’s something that Casey has been working on for
-
”

“I’m not talking about the screenplay.”

“You’re not talking about the screenplay?” He scratched at his head. “Then what are you talking about?”

She flipped to the final page of the notebook and read the frantically scrawled text.

“Black. Swirling clouds of blackened thick….”

Monson listened, dazed, as the horror of his dreams, of a demon eyed Damion and an opponent he could never overcome came crashing into reality.

“Where did you find that?” Monson’s voice was barely audible.

“I told you.” Cyann pointed towards the yellow notebook.  “You were holding it when you were dreaming.”

He stood up and put out his hand indicating that she should give him the notebook. In the face of Cyann’s calm, Monson attempted to master his growing panic. Why did he have the book and more importantly, how did it get out here? He said a silent prayer to the god that he was not even sure existed as he flipped through the notebook and saw that Casey’s precious work remained untouched. Monson released some of the accumulating anxiety pooling in the pit of his stomach. If he had messed up Casey’s screenplay, he would have never forgiven himself.