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hand. Vincent was caught off balance and cried out as his bruised shoulder hit the wall behind him.
    “David!” Jill cried out.
    She was too late. Without hesitating, Vincent bounced back, throwing himself onto David. David’s books and papers were torn out of his hands and scattered across the floor. Vincent was taller, heavier and stronger than David. But even as he felt the other boy’s hand on his throat, he couldn’t help feeling pleased with himself. He had wanted to get past Vincent’s defenses and he’d done it. He’d taken the upper hand.
    Right now, though, Vincent’s upper hand was slowly strangling him. David brought up his knee, felt it sink into Vincent’s stomach. Vincent grunted and twisted hard. David’s head cracked against the paneling.
    “What’s going on here? Stop it at once!”
    David’s heart sank. Of all the people who could have happened along the corridor just then, Mr. Helliwell was unquestionably the worst. He was a huge man with wide shoulders and a round, bald head. He had only recently joined the school, teaching arts and crafts by day and voodoo by night. He came from Haiti, where he was apparently so feared as a magician that people actually fainted if he said “good morning” to them and for six months the postman had been too scared to deliver the mail—which didn’t matter too much as nobody on the island was brave enough to write. David had somehow found himself on the wrong side of Mr. Helliwell from the very start and this was only going to make things worse.
    “David? Vincent?” The teacher looked from one to the other. “Who started this?”
    David hesitated. He was blushing and it was only now that he realized how stupid he had been. He had behaved like an ordinary boy at an ordinary school. At Groosham Grange, there was no worse crime. “It was me,” he admitted.
    Vincent looked at him but said nothing. Jill and the other onlookers seemed to have vanished. There were just the three of them left in the corridor. Mr. Helliwell glanced down at the floor. He leaned forward, picked up a sheet of paper and quickly read it. He handed it to David. “This is yours.”
    David took it. It was the letter from his father.
    “You started the fight?” Mr. Helliwell asked.
    “Yes,” David said.
    Mr. Helliwell considered. His gray eyes gave nothing away. “Very well,” he said. “This is going to cost you nine points. And if I see you behaving like this again, I’ll send you to the heads.”
    Mr. Helliwell turned and walked away. David watched him go, then leaned down and picked up the rest of his books and papers. He could feel Vincent watching him. He glanced up.
    Vincent shrugged. “Don’t blame me,” he said.
    And then he was on his own. In one afternoon he had lost an incredible twelve points! His lead had gone down by almost half—from thirty to eighteen. At lunchtime he had been right at the top of the standings list, secure, unassailable. But now . . .
    David gritted his teeth. There was only one more exam to go. It was his best subject. And he was still a long way ahead of Vincent. The Unholy Grail would be his.
    Scooping up the last of his books, David set off down the empty corridor, the sound of his own footsteps echoing around him.

Framed
    T hat night David had a bad dream.
    Vincent King was part of it, of course. Vincent laughing at him. Vincent holding the Unholy Grail. Vincent slipping out of the East Tower and disappearing like a wisp of smoke into one of the graves.
    But there were other, more frightening things woven into the night canvas. First there were his parents—only they weren’t his parents. They were changing, transforming into something horrible. And then there was a face that he knew, looming over him. He would have been able to recognize it, but he was lying on his back, in pain, blinded by a fiery sun. And finally he saw the school, Groosham Grange, standing stark against a darkening sky. As he watched, a bolt of lightning