Mary stared out the window, watching as the news vans disgorged a small knot of investigative journalists. Wannabees. They all met on the walk up to the building then slowed to talk with one another. The oldest one, a distinguished looking African American gentleman she recognized from human interest spots on a local news program, wound up taking the lead in both the discussion and the advance on the doors.

The discussion had relegated the main camera crews to exterior work; only two cameramen followed the faces with rather smallish shoulder mounts. The crews with the bigger cameras were settling in, checking out the best angles. That was a sign none of them really knew what Martin Van Buren was all about. The last time BBC had been here, they'd sent a single journalist. He'd been escorted to the studio in the basement, where students had done the camera and technical work. He'd left impressed as much by the journalism curriculum as the security.

That same security met the news hounds at the main entrance to the school, in the form of Headmistress Williams and the coaches. From her seat in one of the two 'wings' of the school, Mary watched as the pantomime played itself out. The journalists tried to bluff. They tried to cajole. They tried to intimidate. They tried to take the moral high ground. When it came to gravitas and arguments, Ms. Williams was a master of both arts. When it came to pure intimidation, there was zero chance of Mr. Stewart budging an inch. With Mr. Roberts as backup, she was sure he would stare down the hounds of hell themselves.

Which was a good thing, all things considered, so long as both were armed.

Like most of the other girls next to the windows, Mary stared at the trio by the door. Unlike the others, Mary couldn't bring herself to drool over the younger coach. Objectively, she supposed he was nice enough to look at. Trim, athletic, dark of hair and eye, graceful yet strong. Accounting for tastes in coloration and build, he was prime fantasy material. For some reason, Mary just couldn't come up with a fantasy. She cudgeled her brain; anything was better than listening for the fourth time about the history of the music associated with the waltz.

Nothing.

She let her mind wander, desperately looking for any escape from Ms. Lazar's accented drone.

***

Mary remembered looking across the stadium, watching the first real gym class of the year. Tryouts were being held during class; the coaches would offer the first-string slots to the best available, rather than limiting themselves to the volunteers the way a normal public school would. Yet another of the benefits and dangers of private school. Mary watched the other girls the way she'd learned from her father, from her father's coworkers. Each was examined, weighed along several spectra, and catalogued in her mind.

Mary was going to be first string captain. No other result was acceptable.

So, she watched the other girls. One or two had some athletic talent. That didn’t worry Mary. What worried her was that freshmen were tried first, and the upperclassmen would have a chance to see her scores, her performance, before they tried out themselves. Mary needed to set the bar so high that no one could come close, and upperclassmen had one to three years practicing at these same tryout tests.

There were quite a few tests she had to pass, and with good reason. There were four 'plum' teams at Martin Van Buren, Field Hockey in the fall, Acrobatics in the winter, Lacrosse in the Spring, and Cheer Squad through the whole year. There was a Track and Field team as well, and Mary intended to get her name on that list as well, but she had checked the schedule. While Cheer Squad and the other three plums could be interwoven, the Track and Field teams had incompatible schedules.

The first and last tryouts were sprints. The first was to see how fast a girl was. The last was to see how much 'kick' she had when she was exhausted. The second and penultimate tryouts were dead lifts. Few if any of the sports required a great deal of strength, but Mary had studied both the coaches and the tryouts. The dead lifts were there to weed out girls who would try to 'wimp out' on lifts, as well as another way to tire them out before the last sprint. After the first dead lift was a distance run of two kilometers. Sitting off to the side of the field was the test that came at the end of that run, a piece of equipment not normally seen at an all-girls prep school. Mary watched as a young woman hit the football tackle sled and bounced. In this case, there was a point to the tryout; both Coach Stewart and Coach Roberts were proponents of a hard-hitting play style designed to work the opponents nerve as much as their skill at the game, whatever the game was.

That was fine. She'd never hit a tackle sled before, she'd never tackled anyone before, but she'd watched enough NFL films to be sure how to hit one. It was almost like a fencing lunge, except instead of hitting with her epee she'd hit with her shoulder, driving forward with the strength of her legs. Both ballet and fencing had trained those until she despaired of fitting into the really svelte fashions, but enough dieting had pared everything but muscle and bone from her legs. She supposed that she'd have to correct that at some point, but that would be then. This was now.

The order of tryouts within a class was selected by some arcane formula known only to the coaches. As each girl's name was called, she would stand up, jog quickly over to the sprint start line, and start at the coach's signal. Mary had already seen one girl walk too slow and have the heavyset, older coach fire off his starting gun before she got to the starting line. Just another mistake, another thing to avoid. Mary was good at avoiding mistakes.

***

"Ms. Drake, what is the appropriate dance for the music 'Epoca'?"

"A waltz?"

"Incorrect. What about the dance for the music 'Objection'?"

"I'm guessing not a waltz?"

"Are you well, Ms. Drake? You seem distracted."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Lazar. I don't know why; I just can't seem to focus."

"The first dance with the young men from Richard Mentor Johnson High School is six weeks from now, shortly after the winter break. While it would be anachronistic to indicate your futures rely on your dancing skills, I will not have students placed under me demonstrate less than perfect knowledge of the area in which I have trained them."

"I understand, Ms. Lazar. I don't know why I'm so out of it today. Can I go to the nurse?"

"Wait a moment. If you are still 'out of it' at the end of class, I will give you a pass."

"Thanks Ms. Lazar."

She wasn't lying. After living in and for the moment for as long as she could remember, she seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time reminiscing lately. She would say it started happening when she met Dread, but she knew it had been going on longer than that. She even knew when it started.

Staring out the window as Ms. Lazar droned on about scales and tone, Mary saw Gwen rolling herself toward the motor pool. The news crews either hadn't noticed her or hadn't connected her to the attack. Gwen's chair rolled into the garage, and Mary lost herself to the memory of that day.

***

Mary watched the younger coach like a hunting raptor. Peripherally she was aware of the attention of others on him, but in all cases they were distracted, paying attention to him rather than his actions, to his voice rather than the words he was saying. The girl currently sprinting reached the weight station, and the next name was called. A girl at the end of the row stood, began moving. Slowly. Far too slowly, she'd never make the team at that rate.

Mary exhaled, waiting for the crack of the starting pistol. She waited, watching the young coach, listening for her name to be called. Gradually, she became aware that the older coach was talking with the slow mover. Her gaze remained locked on the young coach, but the slow mover wasn't stopping. There was something strange about the way she moved. It wasn't a walk, or a jog, or a run. Instead, she seemed to hobble toward the start line.

The hobble tugged at Mary's eyes. With each step, the unknown girl pulled another bit of Mary's attention from the young coach. The first thing she noticed was the girl's hair. Mary had never seen hair the color of blood, with highlights the color of flame. It reached out along with the girl's lurching step, forcibly pulling Mary's attention from the coach. The stumbling girl's skin was the color of onyx dusted with mother of pearl.

The older coach walked beside the new girl, speaking too quietly to be heard over the talking of the other girls waiting in the line. Then Mary noticed the canes. They hung from lanyards around the dark girl's wrists, and every few steps she caught herself with one of them, her wince of pain clearly visible even from where Mary stood. The new girl stopped at the starting line, drew herself up, and turned to look the older coach in the eye. Her voice carried clearly through the air, cutting through the conversations going on, silencing them with its chill clarity.

"I understand your position, Coach Stewart. Understand mine. I may be the slowest girl today. I may be the weakest girl today. I may occupy a new place at the bottom of every list you make. But I will not allow you or anyone else to treat me like a cripple."

With that, the new girl turned her head away from the coach and set herself, ready to begin her first run. If Mary hadn't been watching, hadn't been entranced by hair of dark flame and skin of jet, she wouldn't have seen the new girl toss her head. If she hadn't been exposed to professional surveillance all her life, she wouldn't have recognized the amateur version the new girl used. The head toss let the new girl look across the track directly at Mary. Their eyes met, and the coaches, the trials, everything except eyes of grass green ceased to exist.

"Ready, Coach Roberts?"

"Ready when you are, Coach Stewart."

The sound of the gun shocked Mary out of her trance but didn't break her focus on those eyes. It wasn't the color, although that was startling enough in a face so dark. It was the fierce determination, shadowed by something Mary couldn't identify, but she already suspected. With the sound of the gun, the new girl lurched into motion. Mary quickly realized that even her slow, lurching progress caused the new girl pain. Silently, Mary began to hope that her determination wasn't as great as Mary thought it was. She began to pray quietly that something would intervene, that the coach would stop her, that something, somehow, would stop the pain. Halfway through the hundred-meter sprint, the coach called out, and Mary tensed, hoping he was calling off the torturous charade.

"Gwen, we don't have all day, d'you mind if the other girls play through?"

Mary cursed the coach silently, her vehemence surprising her as much as her sudden admiration for the petite girl, Gwen, struggling down the track.

"You go right ahead, coach. I'll take the outer lane; I'm not setting any speed records."

Onward Gwen limped, step by careful step. One girl sprinted past her, then another, then another. Mary began hating each of them, even as she realized that somewhere, sometime not too long ago, she had been one of them. Something inside her started to break as Gwen came up to the dead lift. Mary expected her to go to the lightest weights, which were just heavy dumbbells. Instead, Gwen limped her way to one of the heavier weights. Quick mental calculation told Mary it weighed roughly fifty pounds.

Gwen shoved her canes under the bar, grabbed it, and stood. Mary watched the lanyard straps cut cruelly into Gwen's wrists. She heard the cry of pain bit off into a whimper. She saw the weight wrench itself free and roll down the straps as Gwen's hands went limp. Her back didn't show the pain; it straightened, and Gwen made her limping way back onto the track, staggering her way through as others began passing her again.

Halfway around the track, Gwen was relying on her canes again. As she finished the first lap, one of them went out from under her, and she fell to one knee. Again, Mary heard a desperate cry of pain viciously cut off. Halfway through the second lap, she stopped, leaning heavily on her canes, and Mary thanked God that the ordeal was finally over.

"MacAdams! No resting during the distance run. Start again or you're disqualified."

The lurching drag began again. The gun kept going off at irregular intervals, letting new girls onto the track to rush past Gwen in their race for glory. Gwen kept staggering forward, only now her mouth was working. Every so often, Mary could make out an obscenity, but most of it looked like quiet muttering as she staggered forward. The gun stopped, and Mary heard the young coach's voice.

"Artemis Drake, second call!"

Mary's legs responded before her brain consciously understood what Coach Roberts had said. Up and running, her arms pumping, her legs kicking with the hard, rapid strides of a sprinter. She passed the start line without pausing; if they didn't start her time accurately, that was their problem. Worse, she suspected her time had technically started before they made the second call. Her world tried to narrow down to her goal, the weights at the end of the sprint, but a muffled cry of pain found her ears, and her head swiveled of its own accord, her eyes tracking to the figure collapsing on the distance track. Mary hit the end of the sprint on automatic. She'd chosen which weight she was going to lift while she waited, a forty-pound bar with a pair of twenty five pound weights attached. Now she grabbed at it with barely a glance, set herself as she did, and swung through the motion of lifting with a grunt of effort. All of it was done without her eyes ever leaving the crumpled figure of Gwen, who was only now lifting herself painfully from the ground.

Mary chose not to set the weight down carefully, instead shoving it away from her and breaking into a loping pace that would eat up the distance run, one that she could keep up for hours if she had to. On her first lap she tried to maintain that loping run, but the sounds of pain as Gwen dragged herself up were a goad, and Mary's chest heaved as she pulled up to the redhead, who was only now starting to move again.

"Are you all right?"

Gwen refused to meet her eyes, shoving herself painfully forward step by step. Mary heard two girls jog past them, feet heavy with fatigue.

"I'll be fine. You'll need to be going now, I guess."

Mary, jogging in place to keep pace with Gwen's lurching walk, turned herself around and jogged backwards so she could look into Gwen's eyes. Immediately, Gwen dropped her eyes to stare at Mary's feet. Another girl ran past, her sniff of disdain clear.

"I mean it. You need help. You deserve it after this run. I'm here, let me help."

"What do you mean, I deserve it?"

"If half of these girls had your grit, I could guarantee the coaches any championship they wanted."

"Yeah, well. You need to finish to get on the team, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Drake! No horseplay! Get running!"

Again, Mary reacted without thinking. She sprinted away, pushing herself again to complete the lap and pull back up beside Gwen. During the lap, she passed the three that had lapped Gwen and two more as well. She caught up as Gwen finished her second lap. Risking the coach's wrath, she slowed to a jog as she neared, ready to sprint if she heard her name called.

"Come on, Gwen, you can do it!"

At the sound of her name, Gwen jumped, a hiss of pain coming from her as Mary pulled even with her. As she ran away from her, kicking back to her long-distance lope, she heard Gwen call out faintly from behind her.

"Easy for you to say, Slim."

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Mary was too tired to sprint again, which didn't bode well for her final sprint, but at this point she didn't care. Mary might not finish at the top of the class, but Gwen was going to finish. Almost all the girls had cleared the bench where Mary had waited. The remaining few were slackers, likely refusing to try out as some form of misguided protest. Mary took a note that one of them was reading some kind of large format paperback book, then she was pulling even with Gwen again.

"Just a lap and a half more, Gwen! You can do it!"

"That's what I'm afraid of, Legs."

Another lap, and on this one Mary slowed a bit. She was still outdistancing most of the girls on their fourth lap, but she would be in no condition to sprint at the end if she tried to keep up her full pace. Mary was closing with the finish line, passing by where the senior coach, Stewart, was standing, when she had an inspiration.

"Coach Stewart! Permission to do another lap?"

His reply sounded a bit surprised, but Mary's heart was thrilled when she heard it.

"Your option, Drake."

"Thanks, Coach!"

She slowed her pace just a touch more, until she was taking a lap for every quarter lap of Gwen's, more or less. She passed Gwen at the three-quarter lap point, slowing as she did.

"Keep it up, Gwen! Only about a lap to go!"

"That's what scares me."

"Huh?"

But Gwen was receding, and while Mary could manage the occasional parade ground shout while she ran, Gwen could barely walk quickly, let alone shout. Mary kept her jog going while she took the next lap, and before she reached Gwen, she let out a barked interrogative.

"Why does finishing scare you?"

"That sled's… going to hurt… wicked bad."

The answer, gasped out, was barely intelligible, and Mary was still puzzling it out when the starting gun rang out. Coach Stewart had stopped calling names a minute or so before, so it took Mary completely by surprise, and she stumbled. As she righted herself and regained her pace, she looked over to the sprint track to see what was going on there.

The girl with the paperback manual had dropped it where she sat and now glided down the sprint track, her pace a long, slow lope. That lope was deceptively fast; Mary was tall for a girl, her mother occasionally referred to it as 'model tall', but the girl loping down the sprint track was at least six two, maybe six four. Long, tangled chestnut hair streamed out behind her, the remains of the clip that had held it back tangled in the ends. She wore the regulation gym shorts and tee shirt, and Mary stared in awe at the size and definition of her calves and forearms. She obviously worked out, but whatever else she did, sprinting wasn't part of it. Even with that ground eating lope, the giantess was slow. Mary, jogging at a pace she could keep up all day, almost kept up with the girl on the sprint track.

"Lane Lake! On the sprint track now!"

Lane, that was the girl's name. Mary craned her head to see what Lane would do when she hit the weights; Mary hadn't thought anyone was going to outlift her, but she hadn't really registered Lane sitting there. She'd been too focused. Now she nearly missed the turn of the track, and while she was catching herself again, looking to see where Gwen had got to, she heard a clank followed by a jingle, which started to doppler up on her as she slowed to talk to Gwen.

"Half a lap!"

“I wish someone would take out that sled. Carrying me the rest of the way would be handy, too.”

Mary forgot her snappy reply. The jangling noise caught up with her, and Lane went by, one arm rhythmically curling the bar in her right hand. As she passed, Mary heard her mutter.

“Be right back, ok?”

Mary was too surprised to register the fact that she hadn’t sped back up. Lane kept running at that same slow lope, eating up the meters, curling what really ought to have been a bench press weight. As she passed the deserted weight station, Lane casually tossed the bar aside, to land amongst the others with a resounding crash and clang.

As she jogged past the station and got a closer look, Mary realized the weights hadn’t hit any others. Instead, they’d landed more or less in place, but the momentum of being thrown had caused them to bounce and clatter when they landed. They were no more or less messy or damaged than the ones Mary herself had dropped.

An outraged squawk snapped Mary’s head back around to look at Gwen. Rather, she was looking at where Gwen had been; Lane had scooped her up in passing, and now held her cradled in one arm as she loped the rest of the way around the track. At the end of the lap, with Mary sprinting in pursuit, Lane stopped, carefully set her human cargo down, and took off around the track again.

“What the heck was that?”

“Well, you did say you wanted to be carried.”

“Yeah. So you’re telling me it’s all my fault?”

“Hey, hey, I’m just sayin’.”

“OK, do you want to take the first go at the sled?”

“I can wait for you.”

“No, seriously Arti. You need to go first. I’m going to be a bit recovering from my knight in shining armor over there.”

At that point, Lane thundered by on the track, leaving a muttered ‘sorry’ in her wake.

“MacAdams! Drake! You’ve got sixty seconds to decide who’s going first and make your run, starting now!”

“Look, Mary, I’m not sure I can bring myself to hit that thing. I’m really not sure I can do it in sixty seconds.”

“Gwen, I’m not taking this away from you. You deserve it. If I make this team, you’re going to be on it.”

“What?! I’m not athlete material, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I don’t care. I’m going to be Captain of this team, and you’re going to be on it.”

“Arrogant much?”

“I prefer driven. Are you sure you don’t mind me going first?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Actually, could you pretend it’s soft?”

“Huh?”

“Every other girl here has bounced off, or tapped it, or hit it and wheezed like they were hitting a wall. Can you hit it and not act like that?”

“Sure. Here goes.”

Mary set herself in a sprinters crouch, counted to three, rocking back and forth as she did. At three she launched herself forward into a sprint, her thighs driving her forward. She saw the sled coming closer, closer, and suddenly she was there, her foot driving down into the dirt, her shoulder slamming low into the sled’s pad, pushing with the strength of her whole body. The sled lifted, stuck, and broke free. Mr. Roberts stood on the sled above her, shouting approval alternated with dire threats if she stopped. Her thighs burned, her lungs ached and blew like bellows. She pushed until her foot slipped out from under her and she fell to the ground.

As she lifted herself to one knee, two voices assailed her: Mr. Roberts’ sweet tenor from above, and Lane’s harsh bark dopplering in from the rear.

“Great job! Now lift and sprint!”

“On your left!”

Instinctively, Mary rolled to the right. She turned the roll into a kip up and watched as Lane hit the sled. Mr. Roberts had seen her coming just in time to clutch at the grab bar. Lane hit, and the entire sled rocked up into the air. Lane hit too high, instead of sliding backward it caught and tipped upward. Mr. Roberts shouted wordlessly and dove to the side as Lane kept switching her grip, kept pushing the sled backward, kept tipping it up. When it stood nearly on end, Lane gripped it, lifted it, and tossed it to one side. It slammed into the drainage ditch to the side of the field, upended and stuck fast.

Lane jogged back past Gwen, tapping her on the shoulder as she did.

“Done.”

Mary lifted the same weight she’d done before, this time buoyed by the adrenaline that still coursed through her veins. She realized now why professional football players seemed so invincible. It was all in their heads, but that’s where it counted. She pushed the weight away, careful to angle it away from Lane, and took off down the sprint track, high on adrenaline. As she sprinted off, she caught a muttered comment from Lane.

“Could’a caught it.”

***

“Ms. Drake, are you still feeling ill?”

Mary came back to the present with a start. With a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, she realized that her head was pounding, her stomach aching.

“Yeah, Ms. Lazar. I can’t seem to focus today. May I have a pass to the nurse?”

“Certainly. Come back to my desk with me.”

The walk up to the desk stretched on forever. Ms. Lazar’s normally brisk, machinelike penmanship was slow, agonizingly slow. By the time she stood in the hall, Mary’s head felt like it would split open, her stomach clenched in a solid knot. Finally, a spike drove through her brain. She clutched at her pendant, and her mantra rang out in a voice from her dreams and nightmares.

***

The fiends had returned to the campus to wreak havoc upon innocents. This time they were here for a female sacrifice, she was certain. A sense of divine knowledge and purpose filled her; they were after the Black Queen or the Green Knight, with a preference to the Knight. She’d seen the Knight earlier, but the Knight’s face eluded her. She brought the Sword of Light to her chest, point upward, praying for direction to her enemies.

“Flashbang!”

A female voice called out, echoed by male voices from the other direction. Thunder rolled through the hall, and tiny projectiles ricocheted from her plastron. Without the blessing or curse of one of the elder gods, they could not pierce her holy mail, they were of no concern. Of some concern was the gunman herself; she was obviously blind but firing toward the source of the blinding light.

The Queen’s Knight shook her head; misplaced heroism was such a waste. She opened her mouth, and the voice of thunder spoke.

“Daughter of Sarai! Unleash your wrath not upon me! The evil you seek is elsewhere! The princess you must defend is in another castle!”

With her first cry, the woman warrior put up her weapon, turning her head to focus on the champion’s voice. Fighting against such a noble foe was untoward when evil stalked. The Queen’s Knight launched herself down the hall to the great entrance, and from there out the great glass window in the wide two story opening thereof. Her purity was such that the glass itself parted to let her through, and her light shone clear on the evil crawling up from below the lawn.

“Evildoers! Fear my light, taste my might, I shall thee smite, for I am the Queen’s Knight!”

She brought her blade of light down upon the first evil, a pustulant being with open sores, rotted flesh, and a sword stuck into the small of its back. It flared to dust as she passed, and she began her assault on the horde of undead crawling from the ground.

The undead were legion, for many had died hereabouts, and they were tunneling to this place. The Queen’s Knight could feel their evil through the ground as they pulled themselves to her. One in particular oozed its way through the hill in front of her, and as she leapt and spun, dispensing the justice of the light, she worked her way toward that distant beast.

Of a sudden, she heard thunder roar, and one of the undead disintegrated into a steaming pile of meat before her eyes. Not killed by the light, but by mortal weapons, its evil was not burned, but instead seeped into the ground to sully the land.

The Queen’s Knight turned, chastisement turning to fury as she recognized her unwanted and unwise ally. The Black Queen sat upon her throne; a weapon of machinery clutched in her palsied claws. Her aura was as dark as her name, shot through with veins of black on the white that had once been her birthright and name. The Queen’s Knight raised her sword of light to smite the foolish, misguided woman. The Black Queen opened her mouth, but rather than arcane verse, a scream of fear and pain rang out.

“LANE! Help!”

The Queen’s Knight swung her sword of light, but it did not move. Instead, she was wrenched around to face a figure wreathed in green. Green fabric flowed about her limbs, and a black helm adorned her head. One green gauntleted fist rocketed forward to impact on the Queen’s Knight’s faceplate. It rang like a bell, not harming the Queen’s Knight, but making her unable to clearly hear the comment that followed.

“Pardon, doughty one, but what did you say?”

“I said ‘hands off my friend, you armored freak!’”

“Ah. Thank you. I shall not be able to comply with you, for…”

The Queen’s Knight was not able to finish her explanation of why the Black Queen needed to perish, for the roar of a monster sounded behind her. Swiftly she spun, her sword of spiritual light shining upon the beast that emerged from the ground. A dragon it was, a serpent dire and fell, and her heart sang with the desire to slay the foul thing. But lo! It had been slain once before, spears and arrows stuck out from its hide, and its mighty scales were already rent with many wounds. Still, it crawled, demonic wings unfurling as it leapt for the sky.

Angels and ministers of grace were watching from above, for the creature was too unsound to fly. Instead, it advanced on the Keep of Learning with a leaping, hopping crawl. From within the Keep the woman warrior had emerged to join the scribes and the Warlord of the Keep. The Warlord and his warriors, man and woman, heard the onrushing beast and began to fire their weapons into it. It roared its unholy rage, but their puny fire weapons could not hurt a creature of fire.

The Queen’s Knight knew she must strike a single, fatal blow, or the creature would destroy her with a crushing blow of its mighty claws. She watched its advance, and realized the only time she would be able to destroy the creature was after it struck the Warlord and his warriors. Silently she saluted their courage and their sacrifice.

Thunder roared again, and again, and again. The creature rocked as if slapped by a giant with each roar, and huge chunks of decaying flesh were blown from its flank with each slap.

“No! You must not slay the creature with weapons unholy! Cease! Desist!”

“Shut up! I’m not letting that thing get them!”

The Green Knight leapt forward, the cannon falling from her hands to be caught by a sling about her shoulders. The Knight’s weapon of iron lashed forward even as the dragon’s reeking maw lunged down to engulf her. It bit down, but its mouth did not close; the cold forged iron of the Green Knight’s stave stuck in the Dragon’s mouth’s roof and tongue, holding the maw open, reeking breath streaming out.

“Hold it there, Brave Knight! I strike with Holy Might!”

“Yeah, you do that!”

Thunder rolled from within the maw of the draconic zombie, and chunks of its decaying brain flew outward from its skull. Faintly, the Queen’s Knight could hear an ongoing scream of pain and rage from within the maw, but that wasn’t her concern. She had to destroy the beast before it died, lest its evil contaminate the grounds of the sacred Keep of Learning. Thunder kept roaring, the beast’s motions becoming more uncoordinated. Soon it would be in its death throes; she must strike now.

“Foul beast from below! I fear not your roar! Now be thou begone! Avaunt; be no more!”

She leapt, her form perfect, her blow precise. The blade of light drove home into the base of the dragon’s neck, driving deep until it struck something within the beast’s head. Whatever it struck was fouler than foul, for the impact sent shivering pain up the Queen’s Knight’s arms. Fear for her blade made her soul quiver; she pulled it out even as the head beneath her began to disintegrate into its component dusts.

She landed before the Green Knight, who sheltered her head with crossed arms and her cannon of fire. In her belly, the fiery pain receded. The nexus of the breach destroyed with the dragon, the undead fell as the evil that powered them faded. Fearing for the grounds of the Keep, the Queen’s Knight leapt, and leapt, and leapt again. With each leap, a strike, with each strike, another of the foul undead shattered into fading dust. With each shower of dust, her power faded. Called as a balance to the power of evil, the power of light faded with the loss of each evil.

Her power faded too fast; she leapt away, fearing to be caught in the open when her power fully dispersed. She landed behind the same outbuilding from which the Black Queen had emerged, there to have her power leave her, dragging her to the ground as it did.

***

Mary lay on the ground, thighs and feet aching. She always knew learning pointe would be a bad idea, but she’d learned it anyway. The lead was always en pointe, so she needed to learn pointe. Silently, she swore at herself as she used the pipes on the back of the groundskeeper’s shack to drag herself up to her feet. She dusted the nasty mix of dust of undead and dirt from her jeans, then swore an oath her father would regret using around her if he heard it. Sweat soaked her jeans, and the bottom layer of dust and dirt had congealed into a stinking mud.

Faintly, from the other side of the garage, she heard Lane and Gwen arguing, headed her way. Their argument centered on the Knight, and while each of them had different ideas of what to do should they find her, it was clear neither one was favorably inclined. Limping, Mary pulled herself around the building, heading the opposite way from Lane’s voice. She rounded the corner, silently thanking the gods and powers of light that her old friend still wasn’t very fast. She was still doing so when she tripped and fell, her head landing in Gwen’s seated lap.

She looked up into Gwen’s eyes, and terrified memory capsized her.

***

“I still have no idea why they made you team captain, Mary.”

“I’m not sure myself, but Coach Stewart said that he has been looking for someone who wanted to win, but still wouldn’t leave a man behind. I think he might have been a Marine.”

“I’m sure Coach Roberts was. He’s hot.”

“I dunno. He seems a little seedy to me.”

“Everyone seems seedy to you, Mary.”

“Pot calling kettle, come in, kettle.”

“Hey, white girl, you calling me black?”

“Jeez, Gwen. Are you really like that?”

“No, I’m just naturally nasty. You bring it out in me.”

“Look, I know it must really suck to be you, but I can’t help but admire your drive. I’ve got to know; can you get past needing to snap at everyone? I really want you."

"What?"

"I want you as the team's trainer."

"Doesn't the trainer normally handle injuries?"

"Yeah, but I want you to actually set up our training. Coach Roberts has a pretty good reputation for general physical training, but I'm not sure he'll be able to do the choreography or the dance training."

"Yeah, I’m obviously all about dancing."

"You're all about running too, but you still outdid everyone out there."

"Oh, yeah. I outdid everyone with my time that had them having to write real small to fit in all the numbers."

"I'm serious, Gwen. You're the most determined person I've ever seen. If you can figure out a way to dead lift half your body weight when you can barely walk, you can figure out a way to choreograph and train cheer routines."

"And why am I going to spend my precious time doing this?"

Mary's mind raced, but she'd only known Gwen a few hours. She had no idea what would motivate Gwen to help her. The challenge might work, but it might not. An appeal to her unique skills might work, but it might not. Anything that might convince Gwen to help her, Gwen might see through. If she saw through it, she'd be offended. If she got offended, she would stop talking to Mary entirely.

Mary didn't have friends. She had a few acquaintances who liked the toys her father's salary brought her. She had another few who liked being friends with a world traveling jet setter. She realized, with sudden terror, that Gwen might be the first real friend she had, if she could avoid screwing it up. Lane too, but Lane wasn't... Lane wasn't someone she'd really talk to. Hang out with, maybe, but not sit and talk with for hours. Maybe that was why she didn't have friends. She had two here, or ought to, but she was too picky to just stop being bitchy and ask.

Mary was many things, but indecisive wasn't one. She took a deep breath and started talking.

"Look, I know I'm not good at this, but I really need your help. I'm going to need help, and I know I can't really count on the others. I... This really isn't easy for me, and I know I just met you guys, but I... I like you. Neither one of you is fake. That's really uncommon around here, in case you hadn't realized."

"I ask again, why exactly am I going to spend my precious time on someone who is fake?"

"Because I don't want to be."

***

"Count me in, Arti. Even if you do make my migraines go ballistic."

"You still remember that?"

"Not gonna forget it soon. Lane, where are the reporters?"

Lane had come up behind her while she lay sprawled, exhausted, draped over Gwen's chair. Now she edged past them, clapping Mary on the shoulder as she did. Gwen hid a wince as some of the impact transferred to her. Lane looked around the corner, looked back and forth as if searching for someone, then turned around and stepped back to Gwen.

"Most of them are still up by the school looking dazed. There are two of them coming toward the garage, though. They look like they're together. Want me to stall them?"

"Just help me to my, feet, ok, Lane? I think I can talk my way out of this one."

When Lane pulled her up, Mary winced at the pain in her chest. Looking down, she saw welts under her shirt, with bruises already beginning to purple under them. Straightening, she squared her shoulders and took a step forward, only to be interrupted by a shotgun barring her path.

"Don't. Beat up girl plays better than perfectly together girl. Let them see the bruises."

"I can't. The Queen's Knight was shot, someone might put two and two together. Where did you get that shotgun?"

"Mr. Joseph's office. He keeps them under an electronic lock. Pey was very helpful when things went pear shaped."

"You're hanging around Mr. Stewart too much. You're starting to talk like him."

"Yeah, well. I'll be hanging around Mr. Stewart and Mr. Roberts even more, now that I'm coming back to be trainer, won't I?"