hundred feet square. Foam mats lay scattered about. Ropes hung from metal brackets attached to the tent’s canopy. Their breath steamed in the cold air. Fitzy strolled to the center of the tent and faced Britton.
“You get the pleasure of spending more time with me than any of the other Novices in the Coven, Keystone. This is because while all of Coven Four must develop hand-to-hand combat skills, your training plan calls for particular expertise in the Modern Army Combative system, which we will now refer to as MAC. It just so happens that before I Manifested, I had the pleasure of serving as a MAC instructor in the Eleventh Infantry. Before being assigned to lead Shadow Coven, I taught MAC to the SOC. I don’t think I’ve ever taught fewer than ten men in a class. But you get one-on-one training, which perhaps makes you the luckiest man on this whole damned FOB.
“The end goal will be to develop a concept coined by my predecessor, with the only other Portamancer we had the pleasure to work with — Gate-Integrated MAC or GIMAC. I affectionately term this as ‘gate-fu.’ But if I ever hear you call it by that name, I will hand you your ass more than I am about to. GIMAC integrates all the MAC moves with conjured gates, used as a cutting weapon. You will also use your magic to position yourself more advantageously against your opponent.”
“You’re going to teach me hand-to-hand combat?” Britton asked.
“For the nonce,” Fitzy replied, “I will forgive you for asking a question out of turn. I will even tell you that, once you have learned how to integrate your Gate Sorcery with MAC, you will be deadlier than an entire rifle company. You’ll use your gates like an extra fist. No, like a cleaver, only one that can cut through absolutely anything. You’ll be able to appear in the enemy’s backfield and take out fifty of him before he knows you showed up. But there’s a long, long way to go before you can do that, and we have to crawl before we can walk. So, MAC first, GIMAC when you’re ready. Now, let’s begin.”
Fitzy advanced. Britton retreated, hands extended. “Sir, I’ve done some MAC before, but I’m not ready to…”
Fitzy snapped a kick at Britton’s knee. Britton jerked his leg back, slapping the boot down, but Fitzy landed on it and brought the other foot up, crashing into Britton’s head and sending him sprawling. Even under the influence of the Dampener, the magic threatened to surface, and Britton concentrated on shunting it back.
“Get up,” Fitzy said.
Britton propped himself up on his elbows, hesitating.
“Learning to take a hit is the first step to being able to deliver one, Novice. Now get the hell up, or I’ll just pound you while you’re down.”
Britton jumped to his feet, and Fitzy snapped a jab at his face. Britton dodged, trying to remember what little MAC he’d had before. As an aviator, it had hardly been stressed, and he regretted his refusal to “roll” with the rest of his team when they practiced between sorties. He hooked Fitzy’s arm in his own, whipping his elbow toward the chief warrant officer’s face. Fitzy jerked his head back and out of the way, flexing his hooked arm. The man was impossibly strong. Despite being half his size, he yanked Britton toward him, using his own momentum against him. Fitzy’s fist pounded Britton’s gut so hard that he lost his dinner, forcing the Master Suppressor to leap backward to avoid being spattered.
Britton collapsed in his own vomit, gasping.
“Jesus, Keystone,” Fitzy said. “That’s disgusting. Now, get up, and let’s give this another round.”
CHAPTER XVI: SCYLLA
— Lieutenant “Sunspot” (call sign), SOC Liaison Officer (LNO)/
Pyromantic Assault Team Leader, 101st Airborne Division
Despite the drubbing Fitzy had given him, Britton was in a celebratory mood. He played with the Dampener as he sat in the OC, chatting with the rest of Shadow Coven, calling the current, then shunting it back, thrilled to feel some semblance of control, no matter how slight.
Downer’s enthusiasm was infectious. Britton’s early irritation at her flip-flopping allegiance was replaced by genuine joy at seeing someone so happy. Richards shook his mug of beer, and Downer animated the foam across the top. Sudsy elementals lined the bartop, boxing with a weird, multitailed rat that Richards had Whispered to his command. She giggled as the rat made short work of one elemental, rolling in the foam, then licking the suds off its fur while the remaining creature flailed at it ineffectually.
Truelove and Marty cheered uproariously, the little Goblin wiggling its fingertips and making deep-throated barking noises that Britton assumed were supportive.
“Outstanding.” Britton chuckled, patting Downer on the back. A piece of him rebelled against the comfort.
Britton pushed the thought away as Downer turned at his patting. “What about you?”
“What about me?” he responded.
Britton looked at her. Truelove paused in midsentence.
“A gate, silly,” she said. “Open one.”
Britton looked around the empty room. “…I don’t think I’m supposed to. What about your precious regs? You’re not even supposed to be making those beer monsters.”
Downer looked down at her lap and shrugged, suddenly looking very young. Truelove said nothing, but his eyes lit up. Marty set his cup of sugar water down on the counter and blinked.
“Okay,” Britton said, thinking of places he’d visited. “It only works for places I’ve been before. What do you want? Statue of Liberty? Grand Canyon?”
Downer said nothing, cheeks still burning over Britton’s rebuke. “Ever been to Mount Rushmore?” Truelove asked. “I’ve been telling Marty about it.”
Britton had, once, on a road trip with his father as a high-school freshman. The forced attempt at bonding had been a cold, drawn-out week that Britton couldn’t wait to end.
“Not sure if this’ll work,” he said, concentrating. “It was a long time ago.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the wonder he’d felt as the massive stone faces had appeared over the guardrail along the side of the road, eclipsing Stanley Britton’s brooding presence with a sense of posterity, permanence, and majesty.
The gate sliced through the middle of the guardrail. Four stone presidents fixed stately gazes from the distant mountain. There was a squeal of tires as a passing car swerved away from the gate. Britton saw it slew right and left, nearly careening into the far guardrail before righting itself and speeding away. He closed the gate.
“Christ,” he said. “Don’t tell anybody about that.”
He rubbed his head. Calling the current had exacerbated his headache, still hurting from the pummeling Fitzy had given him.
“You okay?” Richards asked.
“Yeah, the MAC practice is a little rough,” Britton responded as Marty clucked in his throat and began rooting through his leather bag.
“You need a Healer,” Downer said. “Fix you right up.”
Britton thought briefly of Therese, the warmth of her hand on his face. He stopped, momentarily stunned.
The next morning continued along the same lines. Britton woke himself just in time to bolt down breakfast and make his way back to the SASS.
Downer had beaten him there. She stood with Therese, Swift, and the rest of the enrollees gathering outside
