The House of Grey- Volume 1 Read Online Free Page A

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 clothing: 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