The House of Grey: Volume 1

CHAPTER ONE

  A New Place

  An older-looking minivan rode smoothly up Main Street in a town in Western Washington. A young man slept under a blanket in the back while a chubby yet cute middle-aged woman with mocha brown hair drove, whistling tunelessly.

  "Monson, honey, we're here."

  Monson Grey awoke with a start, but immediately closed his eyes again. He had been sleeping and Molly totally woke him up. Uncool. Completely and totally uncool.

  "Molly, not only was I actually sleeping, I was having the best dream ever! Curse you, you irritatingly spiteful woman, for waking me up."

  "Oh, stop your whining. We're here." Molly pointed at a huge granite sign with the words Coren University written upon it. "This is a momentous occasion. This is the time when—"

  Monson interrupted. "When you finally realize how stupid an idea this is?"

  "The Monson Grey wit strikes again. I remember you being more pleasant before the incident."

  "I remember you being nicer."

  "Har har har, you're hilarious. You don't remember anything. I could be the mistress of the devil himself and you wouldn't know any better."

  "Well, the joke’s on you, Molly. I'm already well aware of your tempestuous affair with the prince of darkness, but what does that have to do with anything? I'm also well informed about my memory loss, thanks. I'm the one who woke up in the hospital not knowing who I was, remember?"

  She rolled her eyes. "How could I forget? You use it as an excuse every two seconds."

  Monson smiled sweetly. "Which brings me back to my point: Why do I have to go to this school again?"

  Molly threw her wallet at him. "He wanted you at this school and it’s completely paid for, so stop complaining."

  Monson put his head under the blanket. "Can't wait."

  Molly turned the car up University Street, and Monson finally got his first real eyeful of the school that was to become his home.

  Coren University had an elite, Ivy League feel to it—an ideal the grounds and buildings took to extremes. The campus sprawled wastefully, taking up the better part of the valley, which was nestled in the middle of the only temperate rain forest in the world. No expense was spared on this school for rich kids, and Monson was already tired of the place.

  A brick wall several dozen feet high encased much of the grounds. The wall was layered with vines so dense that the brick was barely visible. There would be no climbing those bad boys.

  Monson annoyance grew. It was bad enough that the mountains surrounding the city of Coren permitted only one way in or out, but now he felt like he was entering a not a school but a fortress, or worse yet, a prison. Looking at the wall, Monson half expected to see battlements with crossbow-carrying sentries overlooking the incoming class. He didn't, of course, but he did see cameras.

  Surveillance. Great.

  Monson half-grinned as he thought about crossbows. Now that would be cool.

  He continued to scan the vines looking for… well, he didn't know exactly what he was looking for. Possible escape routes? Was it odd to scout the area for escape routes? Maybe. But who was going to call him out on it? He didn't know anyone. Besides, it was a habit of his, so he was grateful. Memory loss tended to make you grateful for odd things.

  Once Monson and Molly entered the campus, the road forked, one branch continuing to run parallel to the large brick wall and the other curving out of view into the woods. After a few more minutes of driving, they reached an enormous iron gate where the road veered off in a circle, doubling back on itself. Molly pulled in behind a black Cadillac Escalade and stopped the car. Her hands were shaking in anticipation.

  She grabbed her purse. "Now where did I put that blasted key card?"

  "Key card?" asked Monson.

  " Yes—key card. Everything here is coded."

  "Coded?"

  "We aren't going to get a lot done if you repeat everything I say," Molly teased. "Yes, coded. You’re going to need your card for everything here."

  "That sucks." Monson could already sense the restrictions implied by that little tidbit. "Why would they do that?"

  As Molly started to reply, the Escalade darted forward.

  "We're up!" She pulled into the now-vacant space, rolled down the window, and scooted up as close as she could to a large display screen.

  "Welcome to Coren University," said a slightly robotic voice. "Insert key card identification, please."

  Molly pulled out a small white envelope, opened it, and retrieved a blue key card. She placed the card in the computer display slot. As Monson watched Molly, a rare feeling of affection welled up in him. You couldn't help but love someone like Molly. She was fun, and though she didn't act like it, smart. Molly's presence in this particular venture was extra fortunate, as she happened to be considerably more excited about Coren than he was. He did not want to be here—she was making him. But she was the adult; he was the kid. What could he do?

  Big bold letters appeared on the screen at the same time the computer said, "Mr. Grey, Horum Vir. Welcome to Coren University—"

  "What the hell did it just say?" Monson asked, drowning out the rest of the computer’s greeting and raising an eyebrow.

  "Don't swear, dear," Molly said, trying to listen to the rest of the message. Finally convinced that there wasn't any more to be heard, she started to pull forward, saying, "I think we go this way."

  "You didn't answer my question," Monson said, looking around as they entered the parking lot.

  "I know." She glanced around, presumably looking for a parking spot.

  Monson gritted his teeth. He HATED it when she did that. She had a really annoying habit of ignoring whatever she deemed unimportant.

  Parking was a nightmare, due mostly to the considerable number of students, parents, and attendants. There seemed to be as many servants as students in this place; probably something to be expected at a school like Coren. The student population was exceptionally diverse, which Monson liked, but there was a noticeable socioeconomic gap; that he had not expected. Considering Coren was the wealthiest and most exclusive private school in the world, many of the students played their part and arrived in style. Stretch limousines in every make and color littered the visitor's parking lot, each arrival trying to outdo the last. Other expensive modes of transportation were also plentiful, including helicopters, jets, and to Monson's delight, a hovercraft. Now that wasn't something one saw every day.

  Monson was relieved to see many people like himself. These were not the ultra-rich, but regular, clean-cut folks with normal-looking families and friends coming to see them off as they started on a path toward a hopeful future. This was a good school, after all, so they should be hopeful. Monson looked again. Hmm . . . there were more scholarship students than he’d expected. That made him happy, somehow.

  Monson observed the variety of students and families, curious how the different social classes would interact. At least that was his intention; the large number of good-looking girls in the crowd made it difficult. After a while, he gave up entirely and looked at the ground.

  Monson wondered what it was going to be like being around this many people—this many girls. This was going to be the biggest challenge yet, he just knew it, and he so did not feel up to it. Nurses, even hot ones, in a hospital for weeks on end were one thing. Girls his own age were quite another. Right on cue, Molly pointed across the parking lot.

  "Oh, Monson, honey, look at her."

  Monson gasped.

  "Molly!" He tried to grab her hand. "Don't point! I have to go to school with these people!"

  "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 striki
ngly 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 clot
hing: 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?"

  Monson breathed deeply. It was about time to make his exit.

  "No idea," Arthur said, also looking at Monson. "I actually attacked him thinking it was you."

  "You attacked him thinking it was me? HA! How thick are you?"

  "Shut up, Casey."

  "Better watch it, Arthur," Casey said, swinging the stick back in an arc and flourishing it outrageously. "I don't want to have to give you another thrashing."

  "Oh, is that what it was?" asked Arthur, who sounded like he was starting to get angry. "How about I pull out the surburito and crush that fat melon of yours right now?"

  "Bring it on!" Casey said, also sounding riled up. "I'll stomp the fool out of you."

  "Guys, calm down," Monson said rashly, moving to stand between them. "We still have orientation to attend, and let's face it, it's way too early in the morning for a thrashing."

  Surprise etched in their sweaty faces, the two boys looked at each other and burst into laughter. Monson smiled at them, not quite sure what to do. He opened his mouth to say something, but realized that he couldn't think of anything, and shut it again. They all stood for a brief span more, Monson feeling awkward.

  Getting his fill, Monson turned away, embarrassed. He walked away, preparing to grab his stuff and go hide in a hole, but before he could move more than a few feet, a hand found his shoulder and whipped him back around.

  "Where do you think you’re going?" Casey said, inspecting Monson with a beady eye.

  "Well . . . I was just . . . . " Monson replied sheepishly. The two boys just smiled as they stood in silence.

  "This is the part where you tell us your name," Casey whispered, extending the hand he had used to grab Monson. He didn't sound angry, quite the opposite in fact. Monson replayed the events quickly in his head. He was starting to feel kind of stupid.

  "Monson," he said, shaking the outstretched hand, "Monson Grey. And you are?"

  "Cassius Kay, but you can call me Casey. Everyone does."  Casey gestured to the larger boy, who wasn't paying attention to the exchange of pleasantries, but rather gazing at a group of girls several cars down. He had a comical look on his face as he eyed one of the girls longingly.

  "The brute ogling the ladies is Arthur Paine. He -- " But Casey was cut short when Arthur spun on his heel and bellowed angrily.

  "How many times do I have to ask you not to call me Arthur?"

  "I told you there's no way I'm calling you that ridiculous name," Casey said calmly. "I can't say it without laughing! That's how dumb a name it is!"

  "It's based on Lucius Artorius Castus," Arthur said, a smug look on his face, "as in King Arthur. How could that ever be a dumb name?"

  Casey moaned, covering his eyes with his hand. "How many times are we going to have to have this discussion? Artorius Castus doesn't exist, just as King Arthur doesn't exist. They weren't the same person because neither of them were real people. Besides, why would you change it to Artorius? Even if he were real, it's still a stupid name. "

  "And I've already told you, Cassius," Artorius said, trying to make Casey's name sound like an insult, "if Artorius wasn't real, then where did they get the Round Table, huh?"

  He said it with total conviction.

  "Did you really just ask me that?" Casey retorted.

  "I hate to interrupt," Monson said before they got back into the swing of their argument, "but why Artorius? What's wrong with Arthur? I think it's a nice name. Why change it?"

  Artorius sighed so deeply and with such melancholy that Monson had to wonder if he was serious. Artorius continued to look regretful, then said, "Do you know how many times I’ve been called Weasley in my lifetime?"

  Mo
nson looked at Casey, a smile on his face, his lips parted. Casey, however, preempted him.

  "If you mention that book, I swear I'm going to punch you."

  "Wouldn't dream of it, though have you considered changing your name to Dudley? I think it suits you. "

  "Oh, you are so going to get it!"

  Monson laughed, but Casey wasn't done yet.

  "Ok, back to my original question. What happened to your face?"

  "Casey!" Artorius stammered, "You can't say things like that!"

  "What are you talking about?" Monson interjected. "You asked if I got in a fight with a meat grinder! How is that any better?"

  Artorius looked confused. "Is that bad? I thought it was rather manly."

  Casey sneered. "Only you would think that was manly."

  Casey looked back to Monson, obviously wanting him to answer. Monson smiled. He liked these two already.

  "Don't be jealous of my dashing good looks."

  "Don't worry about that."

  Monson, the retort on the tip of his tongue, was cut short by a call he recognized as Molly's. He totally forgot; they had somewhere to be. Gathering himself, he turned back toward the boys and said, "We'd better get moving. We don't want them to start without us."

  "Hold on," Casey said, starting to move away. "I'll get my crap and meet you guys at the central passage. You'd better go too, Arthur. I expect your mommy is waiting for you."

  "Bite me," Arthur growled, hurrying away. Casey laughed and cantered out of sight. Monson collected his belongings, including the mock weapon that lay forgotten on the ground. Once situated, he started to move purposefully toward Molly, who was standing not far away, beckoning Monson toward her.

  "Are you ready?" she asked as he neared her. She was eyeing him expectantly. He nodded but didn't say anything. Molly grabbed one of his bags and started toward the far corner of the parking lot. They walked briskly, chatting amicably. Monson wasn't really that interested; he was still thinking about the two boys he had just met. Eventually, they fell in behind a large group of parents and students who were talking quietly about something. There was a hint of conspiracy in their voices.

  "He's here? What do you mean, he's here?” a tall blonde woman was asking a man who appeared to be her husband. "Isn't he supposed to be locked up somewhere? I heard he's a criminal."

  "Those are all rumors. Actually, from what I heard they don't really know where he's been. Just that he disappeared suddenly and now is back. They weren't even sure he was going to redeem the position," the man said, leaning into his wife. "To think the new Horum Vir is someone like that when the Diamond is still attending. Preposterous."

  Diamond? As in the stone? Monson thought as a feeling of déjà vu assaulted him. He thought back to their entrance into the guest parking lot and the computerized voice. His curiosity sparked, Monson turned to Molly and whispered, "What's a Horum Vir? It sounds familiar."

  Molly smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "Not a what, Monson," she said, "But a who." Monson, confused, looked at Molly, his gaze unwavering, waiting for her to explain. When she didn't say anything, he said, "Molly, do you know something that you aren't telling me?"

  "Monson, honey," Molly said vaguely, "This isn't the time. You know that I can't walk and talk at the same time. I get all tongue twisted."

  "Molly, we're standing still."

  "How about that!"

  "Molly Allison Pennmentail, cough it up!"

  "Monson, dear," she said, her tone suddenly switching from happy to resigned, even weary, "there is something, but I don't know if you’re quite ready. Now is just not the time."

  He glared at her, trying to show his discontent. She didn't falter under his gaze, but stood firmly, holding eye contact. It appeared that she was trying to hold back a smile.

  "You're making fun of me." Monson's eyes narrowed. "Please tell me, what's the deal?"

  "Oh, all right," she said, choking back a laugh. "You have to promise not to get mad. It's not like I wanted to hide anything from you, I was just —"

  Artorius and Casey nudged into them, and Molly stopped talking. "Hey hey," Casey said, pulling in behind Monson. "Monson, honey, who are your friends?"

  "Uh . . . uh, " Monson stammered, trying figure out how to explain that they weren't really his friends, but the big kid had attacked him thinking he was the short, wiry one. Casey, saving him an explanation, bowed and said, "I am called Casey. 'Tis a pleasure to meet such a fine and desirable lady."

  "Dude," Artorius said, shoving Casey slightly, "what the heck are you bowing for? Nobody does that."

  Casey glared at him, and then cracked a smile when he and Artorius made eye contact. Artorius glared back, but also ended up grinning. He then took the opportunity to make his introduction.

  "Artorius," he said, holding out a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

  Molly eyed them both for a second.

  "Molly Pennmentail," she replied primly, ignoring his hand. Then, without warning, she bowed. Casey broke into a fit of laughter, and Artorius turned a bright red.

  Molly and Monson joined in the laughter, as did Artorius . . . eventually.

  Guided by lighted arrows, the students and parents migrated from the parking area into ornate covered walkways. As they moved along, Monson saw different groups of older students greet each other in a variety of ways from high fives to kisses, each of the students seeming to address each other in some unique way. Girls grouped together as if magnetically drawn to one another. The females laughed and whispered, eyeing boys expectantly, an air of secrecy lingering around them. Large groups of boys gathered in well-established and obvious cliques, with the normal clichéd partitions of jocks, geeks, and nerds doing their utmost to avoid one another. Monson gawked. There were a lot more people than he had expected. The realization made him uncomfortable.

  The hallway divided into two paths that presumably led off into different parts of the school. Many of the older students followed the right fork of the hall while the rest, including Monson’s group, steered to the left. Monson wondered where the others were going, but didn't care enough to inquire. Casey was talking sports with Artorius and Molly. They seemed to be disagreeing over something.

  "You're senile!" Artorius said bitterly. "I don't care how good we are, there is no way."

  "Arthur, you have to have faith, brother," Casey said, slapping him on the back. "Once they see us play, they won't be able to keep us off the field."

  "Casey," Artorius said in a reasonable tone, "all joking aside, you have to be realistic." He looked grim, like what he was saying was costing him a lot of effort. "There is no way that you and I are going to get on the top team, never mind actually playing. They have never had a freshman play varsity at Coren University. Never."

  "You know," Molly said, smiling and placing a hand on Monson, "Monson is automatically on the team."

  "What?!" Monson shot back, "What exactly am I automatically on?"

  "The Legion," Molly said, acting as if this was the most obvious answer.

  "Thanks Molly," Monson replied sarcastically, "and what is the Legion?"

  Casey was the one who answered. "The Coren University football team," he said in awe.

  "How did you do that?" Artorius asked, looking slightly annoyed.

  "I have no idea," Monson said with mild shock. He looked inquiringly at Molly. She merely smiled but said nothing. Casey and Artorius were both looking at Monson with something close to reverence. Monson felt his face turning red. He quickly started examining the courtyard and buildings that were now in front of them in order to avoid the gazes of Casey and Artorius.

  "OK, Grey," Casey said, breaking the silence. "I gotta ask, how did you pull—"

  He was cut off when Molly placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Apparently she didn't want him asking any questions.

  The courtyard of Coren University looked like it belonged in a brochure for ancient Rome
. The yard was completely enclosed by a small rock wall about three feet tall and a walkway that ran parallel to it. The path zigzagged between large oaks and willows and was accented by lush and well-kept lawns. An abundance of gardens with all kinds of flowers and shrubs, many of which were on the tail end of blooming, added just the right touch of the outdoors. The gardens were perfect . . . or close to it.

  On the opposite side of the gardens, in the distance, older students pushed toward a large, looming building that was extravagantly lit. His group of what Monson could only assume was new students continued down the largest of the rocky paths looking nervous but excited. They walked for what seemed like a long time, owing partly to the sheer size of the campus. The nervous atmosphere probably caused that feeling to intensify, making the walk feel longer than it really was. As they traveled farther along, the students saw many buildings scattered around the grounds. Monson noticed the names of each building on large stone slabs placed methodically in front. The plaques were inscribed with names like "Caesar's Hall" and "Home of the Five Good Emperors." Casey and Artorius seemed to be enjoying the grandeur of Coren University just as much as he was. In the short time he had known the two boys, this was the quietest they had been.

  The three boys and Molly followed the other new students, who collectively seemed to know where they were going, until they came to the doors of a massive building. The slab outside it said ‘Coliseum’. It resembled a mix between modern architecture and the old Roman Coliseum. The transition between styles was smooth but deliberate, the characteristics of both at times coming together to create something distinct from the individual contributions. It was quite the sight.

  "Didn't hold anything back, did they?" came Casey's voice from behind him.

  "Kind of intimidating, isn't it?" Monson heard Artorius remark.

  Molly was the one who answered. "I think that's the point."

  All three boys looked at her, puzzled.

  "It all fits, if you think about it," she said, her eyes still on the building. "This school is the very definition of haughty. Some of the most renowned and talented minds of the last century have either studied or taught here. Very special people, my boys, more special than any of you could know. When you have special people, what better way advertise, than . . . well, this?"

  She looked at the boys as she gestured at Coren’s coliseum. "You take the good with the bad. There are some great things that are going to happen here for you, but keep your guard up."

  Monson, Casey, and Artorius all looked at her with confusion etched on their faces. Molly noticed their expressions and said, "All I'm saying is that I'm glad the three of you met, Cassius, Artorius, and Monson. The three amigos. It has a sort of ring to it."

  "Duh," Casey said, "they totally made a movie about it, but never mind that, how did you know—"

  The massive doors of the modern coliseum opened, effectively silencing everyone in the crowd. A man walked toward them, a slight bounce in his step. He was approaching middle age, probably no more than forty, with a little gray in his short, dark hair, and an experienced look about him. He wore a crisp, dark suit and walked with confidence and energy and wore a contagious smile across his face. The man covered the distance to the new students quickly, though probably not quickly enough for the anxious crowd. He stopped in front of the nervous students.

  "Welcome," the man said, giving some of the closer students a little wink. "I am Markin Gatt, a teacher here at Coren and your guide." He bowed slightly to all of them.

  "I am here to take you the rest of the way, as the path ahead is somewhat treacherous," he said with a knowing smile.

  The man scanned the crowd, still smiling, and lingered for a fraction of a second on Molly, but when Monson looked inquiringly at her he saw no signs of recognition. Maybe he imagined it.

  "Parents," the man was now calling out, "you will take the first right upon entering the Coliseum. Proceed up to the second balcony and take your seats there. You will be allowed to meet up with your children after the orientation."

  At this announcement, Monson looked around at the parents, who were obviously annoyed, while most of the students looked disheartened at the thought of an assembly. The murmuring that had been rolling through the crowd subsided.

  Mr. Gatt, apparently recognizing the looks of incredulity, smiled even wider. "It's tradition; the dean likes to talk to the students alone. He feels that this is a good time to begin the separation process."

  "’Separation process?’" Casey said, raising an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

  Both Artorius and Monson shook their heads, and then all three of the boys looked at Molly. She half-heartedly smiled.

  "Speaking of separation," Monson said, as something just then occurred to him, "where are your parents?"

  This question received two very different reactions.

  "My mom had to jet," Artorius said, unconcerned. "She wanted to be here, but she's a designer and has a show in Paris the day after tomorrow."

  "My guardians couldn't make it today," Casey said, though he sounded a bit bitter. "Work, you know."

  "Now, if there aren't any questions," Monson heard Mr. Gatt saying, "all the new students will follow me."

  Monson, Artorius, and Casey picked up their belongings and followed the vast wave of students in front of them.

  The students entered the building and followed Mr. Gatt down a series of hallways until they came to another set of double doors labeled "The Inner Chambers." Somehow the doors opened from the inside as the group approached. Everyone filed in, and instantly, excited muttering broke out.

  The Inner Chambers were magnificent. The room was circular, with a large raised stage at the front. Boxed seating sat on raised platforms, which descended at even intervals to the middle of the oversized space, where a huge stage stood. Large silk banners bathed in crimson with the Coren University symbol traced in gold filigree hung from the ceiling, giving the space an earthy yet refined feel. The banisters, seats, and railways were built with a beautifully carved wood that was deeply stained and polished with elaborate engravings of different scenes of nature. Inlaid lights offered direction for those finding their seats. The only thing that seemed out of place was the low ceiling directly above them.

  On the center stage, a middle-aged man stood behind a large podium. He was handsome, with perfectly styled brown hair, steady brown eyes, high cheekbones, and white teeth. He looked like a newsperson—just a little too crisp to be real. He held himself with confidence and surveyed the students imperiously. Monson recognized the man but couldn't remember from where; it was another of those impressions that Monson was still getting used to. There were a few other people sitting rigidly behind the man. Still at a distance, the group behind the podium was difficult to see. Monson moved on, choosing to continue his observation of his immediate surroundings. He was sure he would have plenty of time to get to know the faculty. Now that they were actually in the room, Monson could see that the low bulging ceiling that felt so out of place upon their entrance was due to a series of elevated box seats and balconies. It made Monson wonder why they needed so much seating. There couldn't be enough students to fill this place. Where were all the people coming from?

  The students moved slowly toward the front, taking seats close to the stage. Monson, Casey, and Artorius made their way down the third aisle from the front and parked themselves next to a large, frumpy-looking boy who smelled of cabbage. The boy turned from the friend with whom he had been talking as they approached. His eyes fell upon Artorius, Casey, and then Monson.

  He stared openly at the scars on Monson's face. His eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. Monson didn't like the look in the boy’s eyes—as if he recognized him. Quite suddenly, the boy turned back to his friend and spoke rapidly in an excited voice.

  "Something really weird is going on," Monson said, leaning toward Casey. He looked at Casey inquisitively. "Do you have any idea what the Horum Vir
is?"

  "Well, of course I know what it is," Casey said indignantly, "but what does that have to do with . . . oh . . . I see . . . ," he trailed off. Monson just stared at him. Casey obviously understood something he didn't, so he waited. All at once, Casey spoke fast and excitedly. "But how could that have happened?!? The whole thing is fixed—everyone knows that."

  "What are you talking about?" Monson's bewildered voice broke in.

  "The Horum Vir," Casey's voice rose slightly. "That's the only way you could have made the Legion without trying out, and as a freshman. Oh man, can I pick friends! This is going to be sweet."

  Monson interrupted. "Casey, hold up, what is a Horum Vir?"

  "Not what, " Casey said.

  "OK," Monson said, a resigned note in his voice, "who is the Horum Vir?"

  Monson already knew the answer. Casey placed his hand on Monson's shoulder and said, "You are, Monson."