by Earl, Collin
Bright glowing silver replaced the dull blue-gray that, just moments before, had occupied the space. Monson and his other self stared at one another, transfixed. No words passed between them but Monson could feel the carnage and destruction radiating from the other figure. Monson suddenly realized that he was staring into the face of evil…his evil.
Acting like a trigger, the moment he thought this, the replica started to melt away, dissipating right before Monson’s eyes.
“No!” Monson shrieked. “Not yet! Answer me! Who are you!?” At any other time Monson would have been embarrassed by the cracking and fear in his voice, but not today, not now. He needed to have those questions answered and he didn’t care how.
The ethereal form smiled as it melted into thin air, but surprised Monson when he opened his mouth to speak.
The cold voice came not from those parted lips, however, but from the airy nothingness surrounding them. “I am the least of your problems, little one.” Malicious laughter echoed and mixed with a parting admonition. “Grey, you really should be more aware of your surroundings….”
“More aware of my wha-?”
The answer to that question came in a vision of a figure seen through the fading traces of his imitation’s indistinct form. Monson’s blood ran cold as he stared at the mirage-like figure just beyond the fading vapor. Monson collapsed to one knee as the familiar feelings of fear, surprise and confusion slammed into his mind and the horror of his dreams once more became reality. His eyes locked on a man clothed in a billowing black cloak.
Pulsating anger set his soul and mounting blood lust aflame. A superimposed vision of a cloaked man spilling the lifeblood of a young girl burst to the forefront of his confusion and alien thoughts. It in turn faded into the cruel, cold visage of another standing over a battered, defeated individual, attacked in his weakest of moments. His thoughts sparked something inside him, which fused with the now-familiar yet ever-foreign inner darkness. The evil emotion solidified into crystal clear motivation. His sandy foundation of surprise shored itself into granite-like confidence, as Monson came to a clear, all-encompassing realization.
He was no longer afraid.
He found himself on his feet, gripping his bokken as if he were a gladiator in a Roman arena. His mind became lucid and focused as the foreign and dangerous emotion that he had been so scared of in the past surged and took him over completely. He pointed the mock blade at the man in the black cloak.
“I don’t know if you really exist or are only in my mind.”
The figure did not answer.
“But I do know this; I am tired of being afraid. So come to me, man in black-whether you be demonic apparition or part of my sinister psyche, come. Let’s see if you’re real or make-believe.”
Monson assumed an en garde stance and felt his own rage stream from his hand and course down the blade. He hardly noticed the splinter of cracking wood.
A cruel smile gleamed from the shadows of the hood and seemed detached from the almost completely concealed face. Unexpectedly, a voice spoke from beyond the shrouded face. “It seems the Son of the Great Betrayer has some fight left in him.”
Son? What do you mean, son? Monson’s mind whirled. However, his all-engulfing anger would not allow for a sidebar discourse. He charged.
Monson shot forward like a deranged cheetah, directing everything in his being on that one moment of contact. He closed the distance, noting the subtle boom of thunder somewhere in the distance. From what seemed like a hundred feet away, a thought came sharply into his head, thrusting aggressively through the haze of boiling rage.
The grinning man isn’t moving, he thought.
Monson was fifty feet away now, but still nothing; no reaction from the cloaked man.
Twenty-five feet; no movement.
Twenty-feet…fifteen-feet…ten…five…Monson’s blade slashed across the chest of the cloaked man’s chest as the man gaped in surprise. The wood seemed to take on a blade-like edge and sailed through the dark cloth like the sharpest of swords. He followed through, splitting the man from shoulder to hip before hunching down and to one side, holding the pose.
He could hear nothing. The only sound was the rise and fall of his own breathing. He could feel nothing aside from the drive of his unnatural blood lust. He did his best to control the swelling impulse as realization settled in.
He did not know what he had expected-agonizing screams, the splutter of life fluids, or the dissipation of his own foregone delusion, perhaps. But the crumbling of stacked stones to the earth and the tearing of the black lifeless cloth where the man had once stood were the last things he could have foreseen.
He did not let his guard down, could not let his guard down. Something was lingering among the lush breath of vegetation and thick, humid air. He could feel it…he could feel…someone. The traces of another’s presence saturated his surroundings. He heard faint, diabolical laughter that seemed to ping off every air movement, taunting him like a mythical spirit or ghost.
Inexorably, that feeling, that sound drew him away from black torn cloth and the pile of stones, appealing to him at the most basic level. Monson sprang back into action, racing towards The Barracks and rounding the corner of its western edge. A blast of wind forced him to close his eyes as he cleared the angle of the building. The tail ends of the strange laughter fell prey to the strengthening gusts of air, then, all at once, all natural sounds cut out as if the power cord to nature’s sound system had shorted out. Then there was silence; annoyingly natural, unadulterated silence.
Monson swore aloud. “Where are you? I know you’re here!”
No one answered him. All at once, he felt pain and at the same time was aware of the scuffling of feet just behind him. His skin ignited as the same thin layer of fire he had experienced in all its painful glory during Artorius’ tryout rippled across his body. Monson did his best not to submit, not allowing the fire to overcome him.
“No!” He grunted aloud. “Not yet! There are…still things to do…starting with….”
He spun around, swinging his bokken like a medieval claymore. He did not recognize the newcomer but was amazed by how easily his deadly blow was dodged. Monson’s sword sailed through thin air and was stopped only when it came crashing into the unmovable brick of The Barracks. The scorching pain was fully upon him now. So much so, that he barely registered the splintering remnants of his wooden sword. As the final wisps of his bloodthirst burned away and the physical, mental and emotional demands of the last few minutes laid hold upon him, he fell toward the ground, finally overtaken. It was only then that he noticed the glitter of icy sapphire eyes.
Chapter 33 – Sister
“I’ve got you, Monson.” Small yet very strong hands caught him and kept him from hitting the ground. Cyann Harrison lowered him to the grass.
The burning sensation finished its painful work. His evil was finally gone, suppressed, at least for now, purified by the pain. Monson glanced towards the stub in his hand. He saw the shattered remnants of his wooden sword just beyond his arm’s reach. It made him very sad to see the mock weapon in small, needle-like pieces. His head rotated back towards Cyann.
“How is it that you always know where I am? I swear you’re stalking me.” He swore, albeit inwardly, at himself. Of all the things he could have said, did he really have to say that?“And what if I was?” Cyann sounded completely serious, which at the same time surprised and amused him. Monson thought she might have been joking but he could never tell with her.
“Then you’re creepy,” answered Monson dryly. He coughed so hard he felt like he was about to lose a lung. He felt very weak.
“Creepy? How rude are you? Most boys would like it if I stalked them.”
“Well aren’t you the all-star.”
“Shut up. You’ll just have to deal with it; can’t be helped.”
OK, now he knew she was joking. “Then not only are you creepy but I question your sanity.” He chuckled slightly. “And you know, for
future reference, your jokes would have a lot more staying power if you actually smiled while you said them.”
“I'll keep that in mind.”
“You do that.”
“So you gonna tell me why you almost took my head off?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “What, don’t you already know? Seeing as you know me so well.”
A dull red twinge touched Cyann’s cheeks. She was upset with herself. “Ha ha ha, you’re hilarious.”
Monson feigned innocence. “I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?”
She did not answer.
He capitalized on the pause in the conversation, struggling to get to his feet. Cyann put out a hand but he ignored it. She surveyed him calmly in that maddening way of hers. The red on her face drained quickly as she shifted her attention between his weary face and broken bokken.
“This is treated, hard-impact wood. Was it broken before? Cracked or something?”
“No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because there is no way you should have been able to shatter that stick on a wall simply by striking it, no matter how hard you hit. No normal person is that strong.”
“Well, I’m far from normal.”
“Apparently.”
She stared at him intently.
“Stop that.” Monson ran a hair through his hair.
“Stop what?”
“Stop trying to understand me.”
Her eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. “Did you really just say that?”
“Yes, I did. And I’ll save you trouble of asking. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Please. I can read you…just as well as you can read me. Don’t bother asking what just happened. I don’t know.”
That was a total lie; he knew exactly what had happened. But this girl absolutely baffled him and for some reason he felt really annoyed with her and inclined to shake that expression of hers.
She glared at him, trying hard to mask her feelings. It was all for naught, however, as the underlying emotion streamed from her face like from a projector. She was mad. He had actually made her mad.
He cocked an eyebrow as he remembered their last encounter. “Are you sure you want to be seen with me? I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
Cyann’s tone became defensive. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb; it’s beneath you.”
His words caught in this throat. Why was he acting this way? She just wanted to know what was wrong. She just wanted to help. It was not as if she had come here on purpose just to bother him. So why was he being so mean to her? That nagging inner voice interrupted his thoughts.
You are dangerous….
“Monson, why are you-”
His phone buzzed saving him from further conversation. He picked up the phone in spite of her intent to reply.
It was a message from Casey.
Grey, where the heck are you? Food is coming!!!
Monson popped off a message. I’m on my way.
“Well, not that this hasn’t been delightful or anything, but I should get going.”
Cyann did not say anything as he turned to leave, and remained equally silent as he stumbled, starting to fall to his knees after a few steps.
After a moment of indecision, she jumped to catch him and threw his arm across her shoulders.
“I don’t need your help.”
He tried to wiggle from her grasp but she held tight, clinching him around his waist. “What are you doing? Just lean on me.”
He turned his head to look at her. “I’m fine. You don’t-”
She raised her head and met his eyes. “Stop being a stubborn ass and let me help you.”
Her blue eyes sharpened as they narrowed to slits. Incredibly enough, her anger seemed to intensify. Monson did not back down and again tried to extricate himself from her grip.
She pulled his body in even tighter. He stopped struggling. They stared into one another’s eyes, hardly noticing the passing moments.
“What is it you want, Cyann?”
“Just to help you.” She let out a slow breath. “Idiot.”
Her eyes took in the creased lines of his brow, cheeks and jaw line.
She really was too close. Cyann had this habit of doing things he least expected. Apparently, now was going to be no different. Her free hand, the one that was not gripping his waist, reached out slowly, almost shyly. She halted as if waiting for a rebuke. His body tightened, becoming so solid that he could not have moved even if he wanted to. He helplessly watched as her fingers inched towards the scarred lines on his face.
His annoyance with her quickly drained away. He wanted to tear his eyes from her. Yet he was lost in his own reflection, which was floating brightly in her pools of icy blue. He watched those pools teeter like the rough and tumble of ocean waves, never glancing away from his own disgusting countenance.
He sighed. That face should not be reflected in those eyes. Should never be reflected in those eyes.
Cyann stopped before making the anticipated contact with his skin, her fingers flexing nervously before they descended back to her side.
Monson ripped his gaze from her and felt another sudden inclination to push her away, but could not find the strength. He relented to his body’s demands, leaning heavily upon her. “You promise you’re not going to push me away if someone comes?”
Even without looking, he knew that her eyes were burning holes right through him.
“I just had to check.”
Slowly, they made their way back to his apartment.
***
“Where’ve you been?” asked a voice the second the door opened. “We’ve been wondering-”
Casey stopped mid-sentence as he came face-to-face not with Monson like he expected, but Cyann. He cocked his head back speaking to no one in particular. “Well, that was unexpected, wasn’t it?”
“You know, your friend isn’t exactly light,” Cyann commented, slightly exasperated.
Monson’s eyebrow flew up. “You calling me fat?”
They all ignored him.
Casey snapped out of his reverie. “Oh, sorry about that.”
He moved to the side and opened the door the rest of the way. Artorius, who had been sitting at the bar area, stood as they entered, a very unflattering look on his face. He grumbled incoherently, though Monson could have sworn he heard the words “lovey-dovey” amongst the gloomy mix.
Cyann helped Monson to the couch, and to his surprise, sank into the couch with him, curling on top of him as they fell. Monson was painfully aware of Cyann’s body pressing against him. His arm was pinned beneath her and she was still gripping his waist while her head pressed gently against his chest.
Monson thought vaguely that this was probably how it felt to go on a first date, except a lot less awkward. Cyann quickly untangled herself.
Casey grinned. “You OK, Cyann? You look a bit flushed. You need something to drink, a hot towel…a tic-tac?”
Cyann shook her head, apparently missing that last part. “No thank you. I’m fine, I don’t need anything.”
Casey shrugged. Cyann addressed Monson. “You gonna be OK?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Good, I-” She paused, only now noticing the apartment’s décor. “Wow, this is a really nice place.”
Monson chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you’re a high roller like me. They pull out all the stops. It’s a good thing, too; I needed somewhere to lay my ‘mac’ down.”
Monson could have sworn there was the slightest trace of a smile playing at the edges of Cyann’s lips. He searched her face…then again, maybe not.
“Lay your mac down, huh? Do you even know what that means?”
“Nope, not a clue. But Casey says it all the time. I think it has something to do with being a playa; though granted, I’m not really sure what that means either.”
“Really?” Cyann gave Casey a sideways gl
ance. “And who are you laying your mac down on, Cassius?”
Now Casey flushed. “I’m not laying my mac on anyone; was just playing around. And why are you calling me Cassius?”
Cyann tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “No reason.”
A commotion in the hallway outside Monson’s apartment silenced them. Artorius bounced up and ran to the door. “Please be who I think it is.”
He opened the door to a waiting Brian, who was pushing a cart of food.
Artorius jumped out of the way enthusiastically. “Thank goodness, I’m starving.”
Brian pushed the cart into the kitchenette and started to remove trays of food. Casey and Artorius moved towards the bar area. Monson wanted to get up, he really did, and he was as hungry as the next guy. Yet, he could not bring himself to move. Cyann also seemed to be having a similar struggle, like she wanted to move, leave…something, but was finding it difficult to act at all.
Brian’s gilded voice caused both he and Cyann to shift their attention. “Ms. Harrison, will you be joining us for dinner?”
“I…well….”
“Oh, I do apologize.” Brian walked out from behind the counter and gave her a controlled bow. “Where are my manners?”
He cleared his voice. “I am Brian, Master Grey’s manservant. It is a pleasure to make your lovely acquaintance.”
Monson interjected sourly. “Brian, I hate it when you say that. Could you just say that you’re my friend or something?”
Brian gave Monson a warm smile. “We have had this conversation, Master Grey. Tell a lie long enough and you will start to believe it. You must always call something what it is.”
