Lane was pouting, and she knew it. She couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t used to wanting something and not being able to have it. Mostly, she didn’t want things. When she did, she went out and earned them. This time, she wanted, and there was no way to earn what she wanted.
“Why not, Mr. Head?”
“Because, Lane, I’m not officially one of the instructors here.”
“So?”
“So unless I want to lose my job, I’m not going to be working with you alone in the garage unchaperoned.”
That was probably for the best. It was bad enough that he was… That he was just who he was, looking the way he did. She snuck a glance. He worked all morning in the increasing heat, and the oxford shirt with the school logo on the pocket dripped with sweat. It clung to him like a second skin. His body, heavy with muscle, was so close she could reach out and…
“Lane, I appreciate the help, but these perennials are delicate. If you crush them like that they’re not going to recover.”
Lane hated the way she blushed. Her skin was dusky olive. Her tan made it darker. Blushes should be for other people. But they always showed through. Gwen said they showed up as a funny olive color. Just the thing to convince Mr. Head. Not.
“Sorry, Mr. Head. I’m just upset you won’t help me with the Willys.”
“I didn’t say that. I said I’m not going into the garage with you until Mr. Josephs gets back from his medical leave.”
“Why not?”
Mr. Head twisted to look at her. As usual, he squatted rather than kneeling. His ability to keep himself balanced that way added more heat to the blush. Lane hoped he thought she was just hot from the sun.
Who was she kidding? She hoped he thought she was hot.
“Look, Lane, I need this job. I’ve got promises to keep. Rent doesn’t pay itself. Burgers don’t grow on trees.”
“So? Nobody’s going to care if you’re in there helping me.”
“Lane, Mr. Stewart made it real clear. ‘Not one hint of impropriety’. He… heck, I might get dinged for letting you help me like this. Ah, shi… I need this job for more than rent, Lane. I’ve done a few things in my life I’m not real proud of.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, telling you those sure fire would wind up being a hint of impropriety. Lemme just say Mr. Stewart’s recommendation could go a long way to fixing things for me.”
“So you won’t help me with the Willys?”
He shook his head, but a grin chased its way across his face as he gently cupped another seedling from the tray Lane held and secured it in the sun-warmed soil. Watching him, Lane nearly forgot what they were talking about entirely.
“I didn’t say that. I just said I’m not going in the garage with you without Mr. Josephs there.”
“So how are you gonna help me? You want me to roll it out in front of the garage?”
“Oh, no. Way too much chance of both of us going in to rummage the toolbox at the same time.”
“So?”
“Look, I can help you, but you’ve got to stop pushing to get more than I can give, ok?”
“If you can’t help me, how are you going to help me?”
“Do you really need help with the grunt work, or with the know-how on the restore?”
“The know-how.”
“That’s what I can do for you. I can answer questions. I’ve kept more than one of those old warhorses running way past when it ought have broken down. I might even be able to lay hands on some parts for you, if you can put in a good word with Mr. Josephs when he gets back.”
Lane stared off into the middle distance. Talk of laying hands had her blushing. Desperate for something to do which would take her eyes off Mr. Head, she set the tray of seedlings down and walked over to the supply cart for a bottle of water. She took one, yanked the cap off, and drank it down. Some spilled down her front, mixing with the sweat that already soaked her shirt.
The heat had come early this year. Only March, and the thermometer already read over eighty degrees. The science teachers talked about global warming. All Lane knew was that it didn’t feel right and bothered her whenever she thought about it. Just another reason she lost herself thinking about the new groundskeeper so often.
“Lane? You still with me over there?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m here. You can get me parts?”
“I’m pretty sure. It might take them a bit to get here, but I know a few guys. You can put in a word with Mr. Josephs for me?”
“I can do that.”
“I know you can. Don’t forget.”
“K. How many more of these do we need to plant?”
“We’ve got…”
Thunder rumbled across the campus, blotting out the rest of Mr. Head’s response. Over his shoulder, a ripple in the air turned into a mounted warrior armored in pearlescent plate. Without thinking, Lane grabbed her pry bar from the tool tray and leapt to her feet. Behind her muffed swearing and scrabbling filtered through as Mr. Head reached into the tool tray himself.
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The armored figure looked down on her. With a shock Lane realized that mounted, he stood barely a foot taller than her in her work boots. A voice rang out, eerily like the Knight that bounded around the campus. Higher pitched, yet more masculine. Lane had no idea what he said, it wasn’t English. After a moment’s stillness, the warrior waved a hand in her direction. Again, his voice rang out high and sweet, this time in English pulled from an old British movie.
“Where can I find the Falling Eagle?”
Lane shook her head, blinking, then Mr. Head was there. In one hand he held the small sledge he had taken to carrying around. In the other an automatic pistol gleamed.
“Back off.”
“You would challenge me?”
“No. I’ll kill you if I have to, though.”
“Words of challenge have been spoken! I accept!”
With that the mounted figure charged forward. A lance of blinding light seared forward from his right hand. A disc of blackness swirled about his left, held protectively before him. Lane dove to the side, blinded. Behind her came a series of sharp explosions followed by two enormous bursts of thunder.
“Mr. Head! Mr. Head!”
Lane shook her head. Ringing from the volley of gunshots filled her ears. Dimly, she heard Mr. Head’s voice. She couldn’t make out the words. She dragged herself to her feet and stumbled toward him. Vision returned, and she looked down at Mr. Head. The shoulder of his shirt burned away, exposing blackened body armor underneath. He stood glaring at what remained of the fallen steed and rider.
The helms of both the rider and steed were destroyed, the heads within unrecognizable. In the distance, Lane heard a voice like crystal and steel and thunder echoing across the campus. The sharp crack of distant gunfire sounded from all sides. Within, she felt the pull to get to Gwen, to protect her from harm. Mr. Head’s hand shaking her shoulder ended her fugue.
“Lane! Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“I need you to get back to the garage, as quickly as you can!”
“Good idea!”
She took off, her long legs eating up the distance. Over her shoulder she called out to Mr. Head, who ran toward the school building.
“I’ll be back as soon as I get my welding mask!”
Mr. Head called something back to her, but she couldn’t make it out. The garage loomed in front of her. Her heart clenched as she saw one of the armored riders standing over the body of one of the new groundskeepers. His aim hadn’t been as good as Mr. Head’s, and his opponent’s had been better. A thick curl of smoke rose from where his head used to be.
Lane didn’t stop to speak. She didn’t stop to think. As the rider heard her and turned, she swung her pry bar two handed. The power of her hips drove the bar upward toward the flank of the armored war pony. Before her blow landed, the rider’s fist clenched, and her vision went white. She felt rather than saw her pry bar impact the steed. At the moment of impact, thunder deafened her.
Blinded by light and deafened by thunder, she brought her bar back in another swing, and another, and another. With each swing her shoulders shivered with the impact. After each impact thunder assaulted her ears again. When she swung and missed, she froze. Still deaf from the thunder, her vision slowly came back. On the ground beneath her feet lay the pony and rider. The pony still kicked feebly. The rider lay unmoving. One arm bent backward. His chest on the opposite side caved beneath armor that shattered like glass. His helm and most of his head was gone.
Lane fought back a wave of nausea. To give herself something to concentrate on other than the mangled figure before her, she squatted down beside the pony, reaching out to calm it. It snapped at her with fangs that never graced the mouth of a grass-eater. Sudden rage overtook her. Her pry bar arced around. Thunder sounded again as the horse’s head blew apart like balsa wood.
Once more her bile rose. Gwen’s voice, soft yet insistent, interrupted her retching.
“Lane, I need you here. Now.”
Without thinking, she moved. Pushing against the compulsion, she forced herself into the garage long enough to grab her mask and Nomex. The mask went onto her head propped open. The Nomex she pulled on at a hopping run. As she reached for the zipper she Gwen’s voice filled her head once more.
“Hurry up, Lane. Mr. Roberts won’t last forever.”
The zipper could wait. Lane took off at a run for the stadium. Mr. Roberts was the coach; the coach would be outside at the stadium. The stadium stood only a minute’s run from the garage, set into a natural depression in the ground. She crested the ridge around the depression and saw her goal. Mr. Roberts crouched in a circle of a half dozen of the mounted figures. One of them sprawled at his feet. Another rider, larger than the others, entered at a walk and dismounted. Beyond Mr. Roberts Gwen sat in the dubious shelter of the announcer’s booth in the center of the bleachers.
Lane thought about yelling but saved her breath for running. Ahead, the leader of the riders spoke. His voice rang out like pure crystal chimes, echoing past Lane and out of the bowl of the stadium.
“Know this, mortal. You have the honor of being struck down by none other than Duke Aeric, Second of the Unseliegh Court. None of your kind have had that signal honor for near two thousand of your years.”
If Mr. Roberts said anything, the ongoing thunder and screams coming from the outside of the stadium drowned it out. As Lane ran toward the gathered riders, the Sidhe Duke lunged at the gym teacher, light spearing forward from his right hand, even as darkness coalesced about his left. Mr. Roberts wasn’t there. He slid aside like quicksilver on glass, his knife hand reaching out to score a line on the Duke’s armor.
No thunder, no concussion. The Duke pulled back, glanced at his armor. Laughter made of crystal rang through the stadium as Lane cleared the fence around her side of the field. The other riders laughed as well. Their laughter had a nasty, mocking sound, a complement to the Duke’s disdain.
“Your weapon cannot harm me, Mortal. Your struggle is vain. Let me take the girl, and I will kill you quickly.”
“Not gonna happen, freak.”
“So be it, impudent mortal! To the death!”
Lane missed Mr. Robert’s reply. She had reached the riders. She took the first by surprise, and he went down with a flash of light and a rumble of thunder. The next only just turned to face her when her pry bar came around to hammer the side of his steed’s head. The backhand of that swing took the falling rider in the head, and then only four stood.
The remaining four knew she was there. They weren’t animals, like the things she’d fought before. Instead, they dodged her blows and sniped at her with blinding lights from outside her reach. She lost the next few moments to charging and swinging wildly, trying to connect with one of them. The only thing that saved her life was the insulation of her Nomex and the innate cruelty of her attackers. They aimed at her limbs. She slipped, nearly falling, and realized why; without her limbs she would be at their mercy. Fear clutched at her. She froze. One of the remaining riders charged and Lane tensed, anticipating the pain of a burn shoved through her Nomex.
Mere feet from her, the rider flipped backwards off his steed. Reacting without thinking, Lane brought the flat tip of her pry bar up. The steed impaled itself on the bar, driving her down and backward. Thunder sounded, and Lane focused entirely on fending off the snapping maw of the dying steed.
“Bastard son of a whore! Unseeliegh! Fall back to my Keep!”
The Duke fled, a hilt sticking out the front of his helm. His riders flew from their saddles one at a time as the small group approached a shimmer in the air. Something threw the Duke himself off his steed, but he fell through the shimmer and disappeared. The moment he did, one final peal of thunder rolled across the campus like God’s own firecrackers.
Lane looked up, dazed from the pain in her limbs. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten to the ground. The deep hum of a heavy duty electric motor filled the air, and the body on top of her shifted. Words trickled through the thunder deafness, but they made no sense.
“I’ve got to talk to Bel.” Gwen shouldn’t call Mr. Stewart by his first name, but Lane couldn’t force that out.
“Head’s so screwed.” Mr. Roberts shouldn’t be swearing in front of students, but Lane couldn’t make her mouth move, let alone make any coherent noises.
“Can you get her in to the nurse?”
“Yeah, I think so. You going to be all right?”
“All I did was watch you fight.”
Lane lost the rest to the static of unconsciousness as strong hands lifted her gently from the ground.