As she shimmied into the air vent, Mary contemplated the nature of secrets.

Artemis Mary Drake didn't have a secret. Saying she had a secret implied that there was only one. Mary had more secrets than she could conveniently remember. She learned long ago to compartmentalize, to track her secrets with mnemonics, and to spout endless drivel at a rate that left most people convinced that she was mentally defective.

They would have been stunned to watch her slowly and carefully disable the motion sensors in the vent shaft. What would have surprised them less, if they thought about it, was her fitting in the shaft. Fitting into fashionable outfits didn't allow for a large frame.

The most obvious secrets Mary kept were those of her father's job. Ulysses Drake worked as a roving troubleshooter for the State Department. On more than one occasion he moved his wife and daughter like pawns to support his efforts to manipulate the fate of nations. His enemies, his allies, and some who were both and neither at once saw his daughter as an easy mark, someone to ply with exotic gifts for the secrets Ulysses held. In doing so, each of them gave away the most important information of all: what information they considered worth having.

Sometimes they plied her with gifts for other reasons. That was when self-defense classes and the whipcord muscles beneath her minimal curves came in. Those same muscles lowered her slowly down a vertical shaft until she reached the ground floor.

From her father’s work she knew more secrets from more nations than any eighteen-year-old girl ought to know. The most important of all those secrets was that while her father's desk was in the State Department's offices, his orders often came from agencies with far less savory reputations.

Thinking of unsavory people kept her from thinking about the unsavory substances her crawl through the vents smeared on her jacket. She'd turned it inside out before she started, so it wouldn’t stain the outside, but that meant she would rub that stuff into her skin later.

The secrets of her father's work were dangerous, but dangerous in ways that she was shielded from. Her first and strongest shield was her gum chewing, bleached blonde, brainless cheerleader persona; no intelligence operative could believe that she would fake that level of inanity. The next layer of shields was the fear and favors owed her. Her father was a feared man, and not all the bribes she'd received were the sort a man wants his daughter receiving. Dangerous men the world over suspected that should she come to grief, they would follow shortly after, when her father read her diary. Her final shields were the guards that her father placed on her, who shadowed her every movement. Other girls her age had vague fears about peeping toms. Mary knew who watched her shower, knew who watched her swim, knew who watched every aspect of her life.

She was even aware of the reason her parents chose Martin Van Buren Academy. While the obvious reason had been the number of children of government functionaries who attended the 'average American High School for above average International girls', Mary was familiar enough with guards to recognize which of her teachers had carried what weapons in their careers. Her English and Math teachers were former CIA, but those were easy; she remembered them meeting with her father when she was eight. Her music teacher had been with Mossad; the carriage was unmistakable. Social Studies was a Marine, Mary suspected a sniper. The rangy little man who tended the grounds and maintained the vehicles had been a SEAL. The only two she wasn't certain of were the gym coaches. The only two male instructors at the school, she knew they were South African and American by accent, but beyond that she was at a loss.

Maybe they were just gym coaches.

Anything was possible. Even stopping a running ventilator fan without stopping the motor it was attached to. Once the fan stopped, she crawled through the blades and looked through the vent into the secluded alcove that kept the fan hoods from spoiling the appearance of the building.

International secrets were easy to keep. It wasn't often, after all, that a typical teenage girl’s conversation drifted to Afghani tribal interactions, South American drug cartel influence on government, or Eastern European government instability. Family matters, on the other hand, were the subject of everyday conversation. International secrets leaking might be overlooked; half of the people who knew Mary wouldn't believe she remembered, let alone let anything slip. Family secrets would kill her faster than any of her friends believed possible, even the exchange students from the most politicized, violent corners of the world.

She knew Ulysses’ greatest secret; Ulysses Drake was dead; he had been killed by his own twin brother eighteen years ago. Carl Drake had tired of the secretive life of an assassin. His brother had the life he always wanted. The hardest part of taking it had been fooling Ulysses' wife Imogen. That done, none thought to question Ulysses’ sudden return to the gym to put himself back in shape.

She knew Imogen's greatest secret; she'd never been fooled. Not really. Carl had seduced her long before Ulysses' death, and she'd let it happen. After Ulysses' death, she'd enjoyed the same position, the same perquisites. Nothing else mattered to her, not even that she really didn’t know which man had fathered her only daughter. To her, one was much the same as the other, a source of income and authority.

If Ulysses thought Mary knew, she would die before she knew he knew. If Imogen thought Mary knew Ulysses would find out about Mary's knowledge. If, if, if. For a while, Mary tried to hide from all of it and be a normal high school girl. She made friends, went to the mall, hung out. Then her father called her along on another trip, and everything fell apart again.

Surveillance always made her hungry, and between hunger and thoughts of her coat, she was getting a bit nauseous. Moving with exaggerated care, she wormed her way out of the fan hood. Once she was out, she dropped to the ground.

Her most recent secret started with the hawk. Not long after her eighteenth birthday, a huge raptor took to perching in the branches of the oak tree beside her bedroom window. That alone wouldn't have startled her, but then the hawk began watching her. It wouldn't be surprising for her guards to put a camera in a fake bird. When she was five, they'd given her a Habitrail, and one of the hamsters had been a fake. Her father's men never really understood the concept of subtlety.

She'd learned to steal private moments like the one she had now, standing in the alcove, waiting. Before the last trip to England, they had been her tiny slices of sanctuary, stolen from an insane life. Now, they were something else, she still wasn't sure what. Without thinking, she reached for the Virginia Slims tucked into her shirt.

The hawk hadn't been a listening device. She still wasn't sure what it had been, but at present she had two theories. The first was stress-induced hallucination. The second was a supernatural creature.

***

"I said: could you get me some steak? I'm partial to filet, but anything will do, really."

The voice was no accent Mary recognized, and she knew quite a few. It had a lot of Wales in it, but there were traces of Belfast, and even a touch of Berlin. All of that was irrelevant; the voice was coming from a bloody great hawk leaning in her open window.

"I heard you the first time. The second was just proof positive that I'm insane."

"No, I rather think you're not. Or at least I hope you're not. They wouldn't have sent me if you were insane."

"They who?"

"The Powers. I guess if you were just a little off-balance, they might send me. I know some of you girls wind up that way. Stands to reason some of you might start out that way."

"OK. I'm hallucinating, and even my hallucination admits I'm insane."

"Not what I said. Also not the most important thing."

"So what is?"

"I'm hungry, and way too many of the local farms have men with guns."

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"So get yourself a rabbit."

"You're right. I'm sure the ranchers will stop to ask me what's on the menu. C'mon, don't be cheap. Give your animal mentor a steak."

"Animal mentor?"

"Oh, Lord, you're not insane. You're just stupid."

"That's me. Way too stupid to understand a talking raptor. I'm going to go call my therapist now."

"Look, I'll make you a deal."

"Why would I make deals with a hallucination?"

"If I'm your subconscious talking to you, it's a way of coping. If I'm actually what I say I am, it's polite."

"So what's the deal?"

"Go get the steak. Cut it up in cubes. Ask me things only an animal mentor would know, and for every one I answer, I get a tidbit."

"Why would my subconscious want me to bring it cubed steak?"

"Because you're way too thin and need more protein in your diet. That'll be one steak bit please."

When Mary returned, cubes of raw steak neatly arranged on her plate alongside wads of pickled ginger and wasabi, the hawk had moved to her bedpost. It cocked its head, watching her approach. She reached out, gently setting the plate on her desk, carefully sliding it to within reach of the hawk.

"Artemis, I'm not going to bite you."

"Look, Big Bird, you're at least twenty pounds of really mean looking raptor. I'm not getting any closer to you with raw food."

"Ok, Big Bird might get me to nip at you a bit. My name is Dread."

"Dread. Lovely. Next you'll tell me you fight the forces of evil."

"No, that's your job. I just help out."

***

Dread had been as good as his word, even if Mary still couldn't figure out how he did it. He'd also been the cause of the staff's belief that she'd a taste for sashimi and had shown her a few tricks she'd never previously thought of. The one she was about to use was one. She lifted the cigarette to her mouth, her other hand lifting her lighter.

"You are of course aware you are not allowed to do that on school grounds."

The music teacher's voice was lyrical yet oddly stiff, making it obvious she'd learned her English in school but never had to use it before emigrating. Her posture was similar, smooth movements taking her from one subtly artificial pose to another, in this case holding out one hand for the unlit cigarette in Mary's hand. She looked Mary in the eye, staring more directly than most Americans would have been in the same situation.

"Yes, Ms. Lazar."

Mary handed her cigarette over, her gaze dropping to the ground, which was covered in a fine layer of ash. When her eyes met Ms. Lazar's, one eyebrow lifted fractionally. The skinny cigarette disappeared; in its place was a shorter, fatter, unfiltered cigarette. It looked hand rolled.

"An herbal mix. It smells a bit like cinnamon and vanilla when lit. It helps with the cravings. The paper and the herbs themselves are edible. Do not try going back in via that route afterward."

"I don't do drugs."

"Nothing in this is on the controlled substances list. Nothing in here has been linked to cancer. If I simply confiscate your addiction, you will go acquire more. Also, I am simply showing you a method I use to control my own nicotine cravings when they become problematic. When I forget to retrieve my herb stick and walk away, you will no doubt hurry to return it to me, but find you are unable to find me."

"But I don't do dru..."

Her plaintive cry cut off in mid word; Ms. Lazar had already left the alcove.

***

Dread showed up in England when Ulysses' work took her there. When he did, Mary was sure it was proof he was part of her subconscious trying to tell her something. Maybe she did need more protein in her diet. Maybe she was under too much stress. She had no idea what her subconscious was trying to tell her, but when Dread suggested they rent a car and drive north, she did.

She'd driven north, following Dread. After six hours, she was thoroughly lost, but he never led her to a dead end. As the sun began to set, she turned onto an old cart path which led to a moldering cottage next to a lake. She climbed out of the car and walked over to where Dread perched on the collapsed roof of the cottage.

"OK, you wanted me here. Or I wanted me here. Whatever. What next?"

"You're here because you need your symbol. Without it, you'll never be able to use the powers that are your birthright."

"Yeah. Right. I've really lost it, haven't I? Of course, I've also lost my bodyguards. I think it was somewhere on the M13."

"Crossing it, actually. It's a node of confusion. I was able to distort their vision long enough for you to break contact."

"You've got to be a figment. Magical birds wouldn't know about trying to evade tails."

"How would you know what magical birds would know about?"

"Touché. Now, before my guards figure where we are, what am I supposed to do here?"

"I told you; you have to acquire your symbol. Before you do, you must perform a vigil."

"Great. How do I do that?"

"Go down to the shore of the lake. You'll find a shrine. Kneel down, clear your mind, and pray."

Shaking her head, Mary trudged down to the shoreline. Looking about, she saw a small cairn formed of grey, gritty stone. Of course, there was nothing in front of it but mud.

"You want me to kneel down in this muck?"

Dread's voice was attenuated by distance, "You must kneel and pray for your vigil. Let nothing distract you."

A moment later, Mary knew she was well around the bend. Her knees sank at least an inch into the mud, and as they did a horrid stench bubbled up from the muck. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily, and for a while it was all she could do not to retch.

After a while, Mary realized she was dirty from six hours in a rented car, aching and hungry from lack of food, and kneeling in stinking mud, all due to a figment of her imagination. Stress had not only driven her to hallucinate, but it was also pushing her toward self-destruction as well. She tried to stand, to push herself up, but the mud sucked at her, pulling her down. Her eyes clouded with tears, she sank down to hands and knees, her head resting against the stone of the shrine. As her tears dripped into the mud, she struggled to remember a prayer, any prayer. A few snippets came to mind, but none stuck long enough to make it to her lips.

Alone in the gathering dark, Artemis Mary Drake cried out wordlessly. Her long blonde hair hung straight down into the mud, wicking it up until the stink had become a part of her. When she felt herself begin to slip, to slide down to lose herself entirely to the putrid muck, she cried out and clutched at the ancient shrine. A sudden spike of pain lanced through her head, then sank down to take up residence in her gut as a constant burning nausea. As she clung there, she sensed more than heard something massive moving behind her.

Fear clutched at her. She had no way to move quickly, even had she wanted to. Her despair had grown so great that she wasn't certain she cared what was sneaking up on her. One last time, clutching to the rocks of the shrine, she cried out, this time giving words to her deepest desire of the moment.

"Help me! Please, someone, help me!"

A low growl reverberated along the shoreline. It was quiet but deep, like something huge was trying to sneak up on her, but unable to completely quiet its primal urges. Mary heard the squelch of a massive foot being set gently on the ground. Again, a large predator sneaking up on prey it feared would bolt. Again, clinging to the shrine, Mary cried out.

"Help me!"

Beneath her arms the shrine felt warm, comforting. She felt it even through the stinking, cold mud that coated her body. Tears coursed down her face, and the awful stench of the mud filled her mouth. Her feet sank through the muck until they hit whatever stone lay beneath it. By now she wasn't sure if she could lever herself out if she tried. Beneath her despair, a tiny flare of anger sparked to life. The first deep puff of rank, warm air washed across her back; she felt it through the thin material of her blouse, felt it where her blouse pulled away from her jeans.

"Fine. Don't help. See if I care."

Under her hands, what had been comforting warmth became a fiery heat. Faintly, on the edge of hearing, words tickled at her ears, muffled as if coming through layers of cotton, or echoing from deep under water.

"Turn around, girl."

That last word decided her, prodded at her, twisted her around at the waist. Light glowed from the center of the old lake. A shape, vaguely cruciform, extended from the surface of the water. Suddenly it was eclipsed by something huge, dark, and glinting with scales. Desperate, Mary cried out to the only person she knew was nearby, even if he was a figment of her imagination.

"Dread!"

"Just waiting on your call, luv."

The light coming from behind the hideous shape before her rocketed skyward, then plummeted toward her. Without thought, Mary grasped at it, her hands closing around the hilt...

***

Mary leaned against the brick of Van Buren Academy. Her head ached with the pain and fatigue Dread told her was her way of sensing when the forces of evil were preparing to break the barrier between worlds. When it broke, it would be like a spike being driven through the top of her skull, down her spine, into her stomach, where it would reside until whatever spawn had been summoned returned to its plane of origin. Whatever it was, it would remain until it killed enough innocents to fuel another trip back, to fuel whatever black magics its masters planned.

It would remain until it was destroyed. The unlit herbal cigarette fell from fingers suddenly nerveless. Those same fingers trembled as they reached upward to the chain that hung from her neck. Frantically, convulsively, she pulled on the chain until the three-inch-long pendant swung free. At first glance, it might be taken for a cross. Only careful examination would catch the sharpness of the blade, examination which would not be possible at the moment, as the entire blade glowed with a fierce, white light.

As Mary's fingers found the hilt, it slipped free of its chain, sliding into her hand as if it wanted to be there. Her hand clutched the hilt, where it looked absurdly small for a moment, before it began to expand. It grew slowly at first; unevenly, the hilt expanding until it barely stretched the length of Mary's palm. Once it reached that size, it paused, pulsating, as if waiting for something.

Mary blinked, as if surprised to see the glowing dirk. She felt the ground quiver beneath her feet, like a beast about to wake. As she opened her mouth to speak a massive sound erupted through the campus.

Knocked to her knees by the shockwave, stunned by the force of the explosion, Mary knelt with her mouth gaping, warm wetness trickling from her ears. She stayed that way, unable to move, until the first of the screams reached her. When they did, it was like a hot iron had been pressed to her; the words leapt from her throat of their own accord.

"With Evil in my sight,

By birth it is my right,

To call forth this night,

The Light of the Queen's Knight."