The House of Grey: Volume 1

CHAPTER TWO

  The Dean

  The dean of Coren University was standing placidly in front of the new students. He looked unruffled and regal as he started to speak. His hands were in just the right place, folded neatly in front of him, and he was neither fidgety nor nervous. It was obvious that he wanted to project a certain image right off the bat. The hall grew quiet as all eyes turned toward the Dean.

  "Welcome to Coren University." There was clapping and cheering from the upper decks. "I am Marcus Dayton, dean and headmaster of Coren University. This University follows in the proud tradition . . . ."

  Monson could feel his eyes starting to droop. He pinched his own arm. Not a good idea to fall asleep during orientation.

  "Now that we are all acquainted, I have a few announcements for you." The Dean held up a small piece of paper. "I am very excited to tell you about some of the changes we've instituted this year."

  Casey turned toward Monson. "He doesn't look very excited, does he?"

  Monson focused on the Dean's demeanor—haughty yet strained, handsome and the projection of perfect control, yet for some reason Monson thought that he seemed ruffled just below the surface. His eyes shifted back and forth uneasily, like he was searching for something. He seemed overly tense with no apparent reason.

  The sound of his own name refocused his attention on the Dean's long-forgotten speech.

  "Is Mr. Grey here?" The Dean's question sounded hopeful.

  Casey prodded him to get up. "That's you, dude."

  Monson rose, slowly, and felt dozens of eyes turn toward him. It was a disconcerting feeling, and caused a strange strain on his disjointed memory.

  Bright lights, cameras, people, so many people. Cheers, but what were they cheering for? A stage. Disappointment followed by anger. Soft voices and a warming sensation that blocked everything else. The warmth enveloped him.

  The images rolled over Monson but abruptly changed.

  Screams. Blood. Pain. Anger. Hatred. So much hatred. Hatred turned to bloodlust, just to be replaced by darkness.

  Monson glared inwardly as he forced himself to catch hold of the thoughts streaming through him. One memory jumped to the front, and he remembered! He remembered the night he won the scholarship to this blasted school. He felt happy at the breakthrough, yet troubled by the change in the memory. The screaming. The blood. The pain and anger. That — that was new.

  That whole period, actually every period before the incident on Baroty Bridge, was still hazy. The competition had happened right before it. Details still evaded him, but he did not need details, as many thoughts began clicking into place in Monson's mind.

  The Knowledge Bowl, the Horum Vir scholarship . . . they were connected. No, not just connected . . . the Horum Vir thing and that competition . . . they were the same thing! It all made sense. He was the winner of the Coren University Horum Vir competition—the most highly coveted academic scholarship in the world of secondary education. He was the new Horum Vir. Monson thought back to the long conversations with Molly concerning his big opportunity to go to a good school. Molly had obviously known about all of it the entire time. No wonder she didn't tell him.

  Monson grumbled inwardly. Molly, you are so dead! What else have you been hiding from me?

  Brimming with irritation, Monson scanned the less-than-inconspicuous glances of his soon-to-be classmates, when a face jumped out at him.

  Waves of golden blonde hair tied in a half ponytail partially hid the face of a girl with a pair of cool green eyes that were steady and unflinching as they connected with his. Monson and the girl looked at each other for a moment, and then her gaze flickered to either side of him like she was searching for something.

  That's the girl Molly pointed out in the parking lot earlier, Monson thought, recognizing the girl. She was sitting a couple of rows in front of him and to the right, surrounded by a crowd of both female and male students, all jockeying for her attention. She responded to the girls, but seemed to take little interest in what they had to say. She took even less interest in the boys that were trying to catch her eye.

  Casey again leaned toward Monson. "Kylie Coremack."

  "What?" Monson said absent-mindedly.

  "Her name is Kylie Coremack." Casey gestured toward the girl. "She attended St. Brown with Artorius and me, though she's a year older. She went to some school in Spain last year. I don't know why she decided to come here now. Can't say I'm surprised, though. It's just like her to change her mind and inconvenience her whole—" He stopped suddenly, looking distracted. He righted himself, continuing in a more controlled voice, "Her family is old money and is very much a part of the upper crust. And if you couldn't tell, her personality leaves you wanting."

  "Leaves you wanting?" Monson did not understand. "What does that mean?"

  "I mean her personality leaves you wanting . . . to get away from her."

  "She's cute, though." Artorius craned his neck to get a look at her. "Always been cute."

  "Yeah, with all the compassion of a fence post," Casey retorted, a slight edge in his voice. "And not even a particularly nice fence post."

  Monson's eyebrow shot up. "Casey, I'm not sure that makes any sense. Are nice fence posts known for their compassion?"

  Casey glared at Monson. The look made Monson cower a bit.

  Monson turned and caught Artorius' eye. The big redhead shook his head and silently mouthed, "I'll explain later."

  The boys returned their attention to the dean, who was droning on about the high standards expected at Coren, free time, and leaving the campus. He rounded off his speech with a discussion of The Legion. Monson's new friends did not mention Kylie again. While she was obviously a sore subject, Monson noticed that Casey continued to cast covert glances at her. Monson's gut told him that Casey's situation was more complex than a simple matter of haughty disdain. Interesting, indeed.

  "I want you all to appreciate how important competition is to the faculty and sponsors here at Coren. Understand that this school is the standard in secondary education and the resources expended on our behalf are vast. Failure is not tolerated." The dean looked around imperiously, stopping for a fraction of a second longer on Monson. "You should be aware of the happenings at Coren. Expulsion is something that is used here with frequentness. "

  Casey snickered. "Is that even a word?" he asked, turning toward Monson and Artorius.

  "I think so." Monson scratched his chin. "Sounds pretty funny in that sentence though, doesn't it?"

  "I think frequency is what he's looking for."

  "Or frequently," Monson pointed out.

  They debated that point until the end of Dean Dayton's speech. As they talked, other people that had been stationed behind the dean, including Coach Able, the Legion's coach, came forward to speak. Coach Able, a small, frumpy-looking man, headed the Athletics and Academic Support Departments. Monson didn't listen to him.

  Different department heads followed Coach Able, all spewing a never-ending dribble of noise. Granted, the boys did not actually listen to any of them, but they were still completely bored.

  Everyone was hopeful the speeches were over when finally the dean returned to the podium. "I want you all to remember that we support each other at this school. My door is always open; I encourage you to use it."

  Yeah right. Monson examined the way the Dean's jaw constricted as he said this. I'm sure you are just dying for us to come see you.

  "That's a P.R. dance if I’ve ever seen one," Casey noted.

  "Yeah," Monson agreed. "Remind me to never seek his advice."

  The dean, after a round of polite applause, left the stage. Many of the students clapped only a couple of times before they went back to conversing among themselves. Yet the speeches continued. Some administrative advisors spoke at length about classes, the support system, dorms, and "interpersonal relations."

  "Does she mean like dating?" Casey asked, amused as a rigid-looking woman spoke solemnl
y about propriety and discretion. "Why did she refer to it as 'interpersonal relations?'”

  "Who knows," Monson said. "Maybe it embarrasses her?"

  "What a thought," Casey said.

  After the painful speech about interpersonal relations, Mr. Gatt, who looked just as bored as everyone else in the room, jumped up to the podium.

  "Now, if all of you will stand up and make your way to my left, I will show you to your dormitory. Parents, you can follow Eden." He pointed up toward the balcony to a man standing off to the side. "He will show you where you can meet back up with your students."

  The students stood up and mulled about for a few moments before they gathered their luggage and slowly started to move toward the doors.

  Artorius and Casey resumed their conversation about football. Monson, not knowing much about the subject, let his concentration roam as the crowd of people steered him and his companions down the light-studded path. A flicker caught Monson's eye and he saw a shimmer of light gleaming off glossy black hair. It was gone before he understood what it was. Monson tried to get a better look, tried to find the source of the light, but in his eagerness was not paying attention. He tripped and triggered a chain reaction that sent students flying in every direction.

  It was pandemonium! Luggage and people tumbled everywhere. Monson rolled several steps until he landed on something soft. There were groans and moans coming from all around as people tried to figure out what had happened. Monson heard Casey behind him, his voice a mix of horror and suppressed laughter.

  "Grey, are you OK?"

  Monson did not answer. He could not answer. A pure and sweet smell enveloped his senses, making him lightheaded. There was something wrong here. Monson opened his eyes. Revelation came swiftly and with all the force of a blunt ax when a voice, muffled and distraught, said, "Do you think you could get off of me, please?"

  Monson shook the fuzziness from his head and saw tousled waves of blonde hair coming loose from a disheveled half-ponytail. Kylie Coremack gazed at him with soft green orbs. She whispered quietly, "You're hurting my back."

  People moved around them. Seeing this, Kylie's quiet reserve bloomed into full demon mode. She flipped a switch and calm understanding evolved into hateful disgust.

  "Oh, sorry." Monson scrambled to his feet. "I didn't . . . I wasn't . . . ," he trailed off, not really knowing what to say.

  "Oh, I see," she said with a surprising amount of sympathy, as she stood unassisted. "You weren't paying attention to where you were going, right?"

  Monson started to squirm. The crowd of girls that had been sitting with Kylie during the dean's presentation started to move in behind her. Many of them were bearing minor injuries. Obviously, they too had suffered from Monson's misstep. They stood behind Kylie, whispering behind hands and shooting him venomous looks.

  "Yeah," Monson said finally, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice. "I wasn't paying attention. I'm really sorry I knocked you over."

  "You're sorry, " she said this time without a trace of sympathy. "You are . . . sorry. Oh, well, if you are sorry." Monson could hear the venom in her voice now.

  She paused. "Do you realize what you have done?" She was yelling now, an angry flush starting to creep up her neck and face.

  " No . . . should I?" Monson asked, bewildered.

  Behind Kylie, different girls clapped their hands to their mouths, looking scandalized. Kylie's face completed the morph, growing angrier and angrier. As her face started to contort, her skin went blotchy. Monson could see the stress lines forming at the base of her neck. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Apparently the severity of his crime was so gruesome, it left her momentarily speechless. Abruptly, as if an imaginary dam burst within her, Kylie bellowed while pointing to a spot over Monson's shoulder. "DAMION'S FIRST IMPRESSION! YOU RUINED IT!" With this statement, many of the girls behind Kylie started to look around wildly, and then, as one, looked over Monson's right shoulder.

  On an adjacent building from a side balcony overlooking Monson and the assortment of girls, stood about a dozen boys watching with amusement on their faces. Monson turned and looked straight into the face of a boy who appeared to be the leader, as all the others seemed to be waiting on his reaction. Monson recognized him immediately: Damion Peterson, "The Diamond." That boy . . . the one he beat in the Knowledge Bowl. When he became the new Horum Vir.

  Monson stared for a moment, disbelief etched on his face. Not only did he remember the boy's face, but also some details about him. The boy was a star, probably one of the most talented athletes the school had ever seen, but he was also on scholarship, right? How did he get back in? How could he afford it? The Diamond looked at Monson for a moment. His expression was unrecognizable. That moment felt like a lifetime for Monson. They just stood eyeing each other.

  Damion broke their eye contact and gestured to his friends, who started to move toward the back of the balcony.

  "I only had one chance to make a first impression," Kylie said, her attention snapping back to Monson, who gave a little start. He had almost forgotten her. She continued, "I will never get another chance to make a good first impression on Damion."

  She straightened herself up and those frosty bluish-green eyes seemed to crackle with electricity. "And YOU, in turn, will never get another chance to impress me. I hope you're happy."

  She stormed off, her gang of girls in tow, toward the exit where Mr. Gatt was still waiting. The audience of students, who until now stood captivated, caused another uproar in their haste to get out of the way of the enraged girl. Many people, unsure of whom they should stare at, gaped back and forth between Monson and Kylie Coremack, delighted at the drama unfolding before them.

  Monson felt winded, unsure if he should laugh or be upset at the turn of events. He turned to Casey, who appeared more serious than Monson could have imagined. An edgy, almost dangerous look inched its way onto his face. Artorius just grimaced.

  Someone touched Monson on the back. He turned swiftly, expecting to see some new impending disaster dropped at his feet. Mr. Gatt stood calmly in front of him. With no pretense or greeting, he simply said, "Well, Mr. Grey, it appears we are going to have to work on your people skills."