The House of Grey- Volume 6 (10 page)

He heard the pounding feet again, the frantic steps and the swishing swing of a blade…time...he was running out of time.

The soul of the blade, what made up the soul of the blade? I have searched for the meaning of it all; for the meaning of the heat, the passion, and the burn of the Breath of the Dragon. The Dragon…I need the Dragon…the scorch of the Dragon…is…is wrong. It is not the Dragon that I need, but something more essential
than the Dragon. The power that is fire. I call upon the power that is…Fortia.

I feel body. I feel soul. Now I need…I need…the words that will....

Monson did the only thing he could do with the little time he had left. He acted, slamming that which was the body and that which was the soul while he spoke the words, “Breath of the Dragon!”

An erupting heat spilled over Monson as red-flamed energy shot upwards, decimating the immediate area. Damion attacked despite his better judgment, ripping his sword downward in a strong, heavy-handed blow. To Damion’s disbelief, the River’s Serenity came to a jolting halt. The steamy, unnatural smoke cleared to reveal Monson Grey and the red forging of a Magi Blade. The Breath of the Dragon simmered with unearthly light. Fire met mist as the elemental blades struck each other. Monson drove against Damion, sending him back. Damion stared at him in disbelief.

“Impossible! How could you…?”

Monson twisted the blade playfully, swinging it in a figure eight. The weight of the blade was negligible; it felt like an extension of his arm rather than something he wielded. A burning tingle coursed through his arm, up his shoulder, and into his chest, spreading to his stomach until it encompassed his entire body. Far from painful, the
sensation made him feel
alive, like he could run a thousand miles or jump high into the air. He did not try such nonsense,
there
being an enemy right in front of him, but he honestly felt that if he had tried, he could have accomplished either feat.

Damion was a very smart fighter. He did not rush Monson in order to get the drop on him. He did not make some foolish attempt at baiting or misdirection. He merely took a defensive stance, staring ahead into Monson’s eyes. Monson set his feet in the first form of the Ja-no, and stared back.

The two combatants started to circle, completely wrapped up in their own world, the physical power of the blades becoming more and more apparent as magical metal drifted close to stone, steel and wood, scarring the materials. Long moments passed, yet neither Monson nor Damion made the critical move to start their fight. They just continued circling mere feet from each other. Monson saw it—saw it in Damion’s eyes
;
the hint of hesitation, the desire to pull back. It was slight, but it was there.

“You aren’t my target.” Monson relaxed his stance ever so slightly. “You can still run.”

“Trying to encourage me to run?” Damion let out an unconvincing laugh. “Are you that afraid of fighting me?”

“Stop posturing.” Monson stopped circling and planted his feet. “I don’t believe you’re as hard as you want me to think you are. This is your final chance, Damion. I don’t want to hurt you, but you can’t beat me and I’m not waiting around any longer.”

“You don’t get it, Monson. It wasn’t supposed to be this way—the Being of Seven Bloods—if only you hadn’t come, I could have kept it hidden—kept her safe….”

‘
It
’
? What is
‘
it
’
?
Monson thought.

Damion shook his head and looked directly at Monson. “You may get past me. You may be this legendary figure that the Magi and the Brotherhood have been waiting for, but here’s the plain and simple truth: You can’t beat
him
. Not with what he has found. You will lose, and then everyone who opposes him will die. Servitude is only option and the only way to keep your life.”

“Servitude to Baroty is the only way for us to live? Sorry, I don’t want to live in a world where he’s in charge. I’m not willing to sacrifice thousands to his idiotic plans, whatever they might be. I won’t let you or him have your way, not while I’m still breathing.”

Damion shook his head in frustration. “Damn you and your stupidity, Grey. You don’t even understand the nature of your own enemy, let alone how to confront him. Hell, you can’t even find him.”

“Blow it out your nose, Peterson. I know exactly where my target is and I’m going after him to finish this. This is your last warning—”

“That’s what I’m telling you, Monson! You’ve got it all wrong! It’s not Bar—”

Damion Peterson’s voice became a cacophony of coughing and gagging. He grabbed at his throat as the seeds of panic germinated and quickly spread. His face went blue and then purple as he struggled for breath, clawing at his throat while his blade dropped to the ground with a clang. A beacon of red light pulsated in his neck, bathing the room in an eerie light. Monson remained still, rooted to the ground and holding his blade steady. He did not know what to do. Damion was an enemy—an enemy who had tried to kill him more than once. Should he help him, or let him choke to death on the locker room floor?

“So you would let him die?”

A new but familiar voice spoke from directly behind Monson. While slightly startled, he did not jump. Instead, he slowly turned to see Taris Green standing not far from him wearing a tense yet strangely complacent expression. It was not difficult to see that whatever her purpose in showing herself, she was ready to face the consequences. He was not surprised to see her; something about Damion being involved seemed to imply that Taris was also wrapped up in the madness. But that did not make him like it.

“It’s not that I want him to die,” answered Monson. “But wouldn’t that be the prudent thing to do? He did try to kill me.”

Taris took a step towards him, allowing the strange red light of the room to fully illuminate her presence. She was still wearing
the
outfit from her performance the night before and she still looked amazing. The whole of her countenance was flawless except for the corners of her eyes, which were slightly puffy.

She took another step closer before she replied. “So it’s revenge you’re after?”

Monson twisted, letting his gaze find the still-struggling Damion. “I don’t think it matters what I want. I don’t know how to save him, even if I wanted to. Whatever spell was used on him, it’s not something I have the ability to counter.”

“Then it’s out of your hands?” Taris took another step.

“Yeah,” conceded Monson. “It’s out of my hands.”

The last phrase gave Monson pause. Damion Peterson’s life, was it really out of his hands?

“So you’ll allow the choice to be made for you?”

Monson struggled with the answer. “What else can I do?”

“You could fight.”

“What’s the point of fighting a losing battle?”

Damion went
silent
no longer struggling as the red light in Monson’s peripherals dimmed. Taris took another step towards Monson, who reversed his grip on the blade and stuck it clean into the floor. He then walked to Damion’s side.

A few more seconds passed and the light in Damion’s neck faded to an irregular pulse.

Damion Peterson was dying right before his eyes.

Monson recalled his conversation with Gi.

“You fear the suffering of others…why does one such as you concern himself with the struggles of lesser beings?”

Damion’s breathing grew labored.

Death,
he thought.
Something so inevitable could not be
all bad
, could it?

The thought triggered a new line of thought. Molly, the members of H.U.M.A.N.E., the commandos, the students and dignitaries; many of them had died during the fighting, lost their lives working towards...what? Power? Prestige? Intrigue? Self interest? Or
self-preservation
? All of it suddenly seemed so pointless. All the death, some caused by his own hand…his hands….

Monson looked down at his hands. How much more blood would
be
spil
t
?
How much of it would be on his hands?

More words came to him, this time from Damion. Monson finally understood. The Being of Seven Bloods…Damion was trying to protect Cyann from the Being of Seven Bloods.

Monson’s face got hot. Damion was trying to protect Cyann by entrusting her to Baroty; no good could have come from that. If that was the case, then he deserved to die...he deserved…to die….

No!
he thought.
That is not what I want.

Monson quickly fell to his knees next to Damion, searching frantically for some sign of life and trembling as the light blinked once more then faded completely.

Monson started to call upon his own power. “You’re not dying yet, Damion, not until I’ve beaten the crap out of you at least once.”

Taris was already there, two fingers on Damion’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

“He’s still breathing.” She removed her hand. “It looks like he’s just passed out.”

She stood as Monson checked for himself. Just as she had said, he was breathing. It was labored, but Damion’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Monson pushed up from his position and was again uncomfortably close to Taris.

“So now what?” he asked, retrieving his blade from the floor.
He stared at Damion.
“Don’t tell me that you knew all along about him
and his involvement in all this.
”

He looked back at Taris.
“
A
nd you only...hung out with me to try to stab me in the back.”

Monson was about to say “kissed,” but found the word stuck in his throat. He attempted to push that nonsense out of his head. Taris stared at him, seemingly unsure as to what to say. Monson also remained silent; he needed to leave, but he wanted to hear her answer before he did; for some reason it was important to him.

“I’m on your side, Monson.” Taris pushed a hand through her hair. “I was just—”

“I don’t need to hear it.” He gave her a warm smile. “I don’t need to hear your explanation for being here, I’m just glad you are.”

Taris, in spite of her surprise at his words, smiled back. He continued.

“Listen to me: I’m going after Baroty; he has the answers I need. What I need from you….”

He paused for emphasis.

“What I need from you is to get Damion and Cyann out of here. Wake them, do whatever it is you have to do, just get them up and get them gone. I’ll do the rest.”

“Cyann.” Taris’ voice rubbed against his eardrums
abrasively
. “Why is it always—”

“This isn’t just about Cyann, Taris. It’s about me, both of you, about…about everything. I need to know what happened at Baroty Bridge, what that man is really doing here, and if I truly am this Being of Seven Bloods—and what the hell that title even means. I’m doing this because I have no other choice. I can’t let Baroty or the Midday Darkness have their way. I just can’t.”

Despite the battle raging just outside the building, it was awfully quiet. Taris and Monson stared at one another as a newfound understanding sparked between them. Yet with this understanding came distance, a distance that neither understood. Monson wanted to break the silence but was unable to do so. He waited and watched until Taris, clearly reluctant, stepped closer to him.

“I have a lot of explaining to do. There are things that you still don’t know, that I should have told you…you and Casey and Kylie.”

Monson’s eyes widened. “Wait…what? What are you talking—”

“You have to come back.” Taris slapped his chest lightly. “You get it? You have to come back. I have things to tell you and I won’t forgive you if you don’t.”

Monson smiled and set down his blade. “I get it, Taris. I’ll be back.” He threw his arms around her and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Go, and remember to be careful.”

Monson dropped his arms, took up his blade, and turned to walk away. He could feel Taris’ eyes on him, a feeling of searching in the darkness playing upon his neck. Monson took one difficult step after another. He stepped light and silent, walking in the direction of the football field and fighting the impulse to turn around.

***

For such a modern building, the Battlegrounds’ cement hallway leading to the main football field was surprisingly primitive. Low lights and the repetitive sound of Monson’s feet striking cold concrete were somewhat comforting during his discomforting journey. He might have been worried about the noise of his steps, but whatever Baroty and his goons were doing out on the main field was making a huge racket, so much so that Monson arrived at the end of the hallway without incident.

He looked at the Breath of the Dragon. It seemed to react to his every emotion and currently was
emanating
a steady beat of red light. Monson knew it was an extremely powerful weapon, but only after a moment’s hesitation, he carefully dropped the blade. The last thing he needed right now was everyone’s attention focused on him holding a brightly beaming blade.