The House of Grey- Volume 5 (24 page)

Monson cocked the eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

Ignace did not answer, as she was already a good ways up the ladder. Monson clambered up after her. An automatic trapdoor slid open at the touch of her hand and light flooded into the space. She scrambled out through the hole. Monson hissed at her.

“Ignace! What the heck are you doing? Get your butt back here! What if there are—”

Monson’s sentence died in his throat. It was pointless to explain that there may be bad guys up there if she was already in fact out of the hole. He now had two choices. Climb up and go after Ignace, or stay down here waiting like an idiot. Monson quickly ascended the rest of the ladder.

Ignace was waiting for him, sitting on a massive cushion. She looked at him slightly confused as he exited the tunnel.

“What the heck took you so—
”

Monson walked over to her and threw her back against the cushion, pinning her down. He glared at her angrily. “Does every girl in this school have a death wish?”

Ignace stared up at him with a bewildered expression. She looked a little afraid. “Monson, wait, I don’t understand. What did I—”

“Ignace, we’re in enemy territory. If you’ve really brought me to the Coliseum then all of the action should be here. If that’s the case, you don’t just infiltrate the enemy base without at least checking for guards, dogs, spies, assassins, small possessed dolls—”

“Small possessed dolls?”

Monson shook his head, grimacing at the reference. His nerves were starting to take a toll on him. “Sorry. Casey made Artorius and me watch Child’s Play and its 17,000 sequels the other day.”

He gave her another stern glare. “The point is
,
you need to be more careful. If something happened to you I’d never forgive myself.”

They stared at each other a second time, the mood becoming one of despondent tension. Ignace was the one who broke first, but in a surprising turn, she started to laugh.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grey. I didn’t know that you cared so much for my safety.”

Monson released her and moved away, just now taking in the room they were in. It was a little dark, almost dreary in its décor. Probably a room long forgotten, lost in the madness that was the Coren Coliseum—assuming they were even at the Coliseum.

Well, thought Monson. There’s really only one way to find out.

“Are you sure you know where we are?” Monson asked as he took a slow, controlled breath.

Ignace nodded. “Of course I know where we are. We’re in a sub-room right below the stage used for the Solstice. Once we get out of this room we’ll be in the main hall of the Coliseum. We’ll have access to the rest of the building—but there’s a catch.”

Startled, Monson spun around to look at Ignace. “Catch? What kind of catch?”

Ignace’s answer was a bit sheepish. “There’s only one way out of this room. If they’re guarding the exit
then we’re
caught, plain and simple.”

A bit of tactical information I could have used earlier, thought Monson. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples, thinking. Baroty was here. That much he knew. Excluding the possibility that this was all a trap, currently Monson had the advantage. If he maneuvered into position and attacked without being seen, perhaps his suicide mission would turn into a hit and run; he might even come out of this alive.

But was that the right thing to do?

Monson already knew the answer to his question.

Of course it was not the right thing to do. Yes, he may be able to attack; he may be able to survive, but then Christopher Baroty/Marques Grey would be dead and Monson’s questions unanswered.

If he wanted me dead he would have killed me a long time ago, thought Monson. He wants to see me because he needs something. Something that all his money, power and influence cannot get him.

Monson just needed to figure out what Baroty wanted; then he would have a real advantage.

“I’m going up,” said Monson roughly to Ignace. “I want you to stay here. I don’t think I can protect you if something goes down and I don’t want you getting hurt. You should go back towards The Barracks the way we came.”

Ignace nodded her head. “I’ll guide you out of here and then turn back.”

“All right then,” said Monson in a tone of finality. “Let’s get to it.”

A set of spiral stairs, two long hallways, and a large ornate door later, Monson and Ignace found themselves on the stage of the Coliseum. A monstrous tumult sounded all around them with the echoes of screams, sobs and shouting in many different languages, some recognizable, others not.

“Where are we? Why can’t we see anything?”

Ignace’s whisper seemed to carry. “We’re on the main stage. We probably can’t see anything because of the curtains.”

“OK,” said Monson. “This is where we part. Start heading back, I’ll go alone from here.”

“I’ll guide you to the curtain,” answered Ignace curtly.

Monson raised an eyebrow in the darkness. “Why would you need to do that?”

Ignace’s voice softened slightly and she gave a little laugh. “I have excellent senses. You could almost say that I’ve awakened my sixth—”

“You can see dead people?”

Silence followed. Shoot, Monson thought.
Inappropriate use of humor.

Ignace giggled. “Someone has been watching M. Night Shyamalan.”

“Ah, I see you’ve been reading the Signs.”

“You’re really going to keep going with this?”

“What can I say, my will is Unbreakable.”

“Oh no you didn’t.”

“Hey, it’s all part of The Happening.”

“Oh, please stop.”

“You know Ignace, I’ve been thinking maybe when this is all over you and I should live in a Village together. You never know what we might find, maybe even A Lady in the Water!”

Ignace half-harrumphed, half-giggled. “You were pushing it on that last one. OK, smart guy—what about The Last Airbender?”

Monson considered her for a moment. He had totally forgotten that movie. “Yeah…I got nothing.”

Ignace shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re cracking jokes at a time like this.”

Monson laughed this time. “That just goes to show that you don’t know me very well.”

He grabbed her elbow, indicating his desire to move forward towards the dark curtains. The noise on the other side of the black cloth was growing. It made Monson pause to ask himself just what they were doing on the other side of that veil.

Standing just a few inches from the curtain, he slowly slid his fingers along its length, not wanting to give away their position by rustling the curtain too much. He found the slit of the opening and let a small beam of light break up the darkness. He did not like what he saw.

Soldiers. Tons of them, both the Roman Legionnaires and black-clad commandos, herded hundreds of people along the walls into strange makeshift prisons that looked like they would not be out of place in a science fiction film. Monson squinted, hoping to ascertain more about his grandfather’s intentions. Nothing. A great many of the world’s leaders were here, but what was he going do with all of them. Ransom? No, that could not be it. His grandfather already had more money than most people on the planet.
Some sort of political agenda, leveraging governments or something?
Perhaps, but then why keep all the kids? Monson let go of the curtain, thinking, and turned to see Ignace staring at him.

“Ignace?” he asked. “What are you still doing here? You should be—”

“Control.”

Monson cocked the eyebrow again. “What was that Ignace?”

“Control. Marques Grey wants control of everything in the world. Salvation through conquest.”

“I know he does, but…but…how did you know that Marques Grey is….”

Monson’s voice trailed off. Oh, he should have seen that coming.

Ignace was already upon him, slamming into him with surprising strength. Monson lost his footing and fell back, plunging through the curtains. It seemed to take a long time for him to fall as the lights of the Coliseum disoriented him, completely overwhelming his senses. He was so mixed-up
that he foolishly misheard a whispered “I’m sorry.” That, of course, was impossible.

Monson hit the hard wood floor, groaning in pain and anger. He rubbed his eyes, hoping that his sight would return before—

Several large pairs of hands grabbed him and pulled him upright. The moment his feet touched the ground, his vision cleared and the warmth of the late morning sun touched his face. He automatically glanced skyward and saw the Washington sun through a lengthening crack in the Coliseum’s roof. For some reason the sight of it gave him some comfort. He leveled his gaze at the man he knew to be standing in front of him.

“Welcome, Mr. Grey.”

Christopher
Baroty,
dressed in a billowing black cloak and smiling pleasantly, walked towards him from a group of his MIB. The smile stirred something within Monson; something that he did not want to face, a confusing
mix
of old, familiar feelings. His grandfather was standing in front of him, just as alive
as the day is long. Yet it was wrong; this was not how it was supposed to be.

Monson tried to keep any emotion off his face.

“It is good to see you,” said Baroty, stopping next to Monson and clapping him on the shoulder. Monson glanced with disdain at the shoulder that Baroty touched. 

“I wish I could say the feeling is mutual.” Monson gave an exaggerated shrug, this time in an attempt to get the soldiers off him. “Can you get your goons off me? I’m not going anywhere.”

Baroty flashed another assured smile and waved his hand. “As you wish, my young Horum Vir.”

He backed away and the men let go of Monson.
A bad move, because they forgot to take away his weapons.

Monson raised his gloved hand and screamed out, “Combat Spell One: Burst.”

The spell surged from the glove with tremendous force. Force that seemed to react to his will and anger. A ball of wind, now the size of a large bicycle wheel, streaked towards Baroty.

Monson focused on the face of his grandfather wanting to see his reaction to the spell. To his surprise, Marques Grey started to laugh.

“Surely you jest, Mr. Grey.”

His hand whipped in front of him at the last moment, a thin, glowing layer of violet energy surrounding it. Monson watched in shock as the large ball split in half and flew to either side of Marques Grey before dissipating completely. Again, Monson’s grandfather laughed and strolled back over to him. He grabbed Monson’s hand, the one with the glove on it.

“A Glyian Combat Glove? My, we have grown lazy. I have to ask: Why did you use the first spell?”

Monson narrowed his eyes in anger but answered begrudgingly. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I see. Just could not turn a killing spell on your old man, hmm?”

Marques turned from him. “You have become weak since you came here. If I had known that this was going to happen to you, I would have simply imported some of the more talented Nilasions. But no matter—you are here now and everything is right on schedule.”

“And what is your plan exactly, Baroty?”

“Please, call me Grandfather.”

“Like hell I will.”

“When did you develop such a mouth?”

“Thank Casey and Artorius. Besides, it seems appropriate for the situation.”

Monson narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question, Baroty—what is your plan? You’re probably minutes away from having every major intelligence group in the world swooping down on this place and I’m pretty sure your fools with the spears aren’t going to be able to withstand the assault. You have more money than you could possibly want, so what is it you’re after?”

“What do all men of vision want, Mr. Grey?” Marques Grey gestured at his surroundings. “These people have been given a gift. The human race has experienced prosperity but has also suffered from a lack of responsibility like no other race of the Great Seven. Ninety-nine percent of humans have no idea, nor do they seem to care, what exists beyond this little blue planet. They do not know of the fragility of their system of life and existence and how easily it could be destroyed. I am merely going to make their dream a reality.”

“Their dream a reality, huh?” Monson pointed towards a stack of human bodies. “I’m not sure that’s the dream those people had in mind.”

Marques casually looked over his shoulder. “A necessary sacrifice, my boy. There are many who do not see my vision, but the innocent are usually the first victims of war. A sad truth, but the truth nonetheless.”

“You don’t seem very sad.” Monson rolled his eyes, starting to lose his patience. “I’m tired of your games, Baroty. Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

“Kill you?” repeated Marques Grey, sounding genuinely shocked. “Who said anything about killing you, my boy? I have come to rescue you. I have come to help you fulfill your destiny.”

Monson felt his anger stir. “My destiny? You’re a murderer and a psycho!
First at Baroty Bridge, now here at Coren.
All these people! What makes you think that I would agree to any of this?”