Shadow Ops: Control Point

Legal Schools: Prohibited Schools: Pyromancy — Fire Magic Negramancy — Black Magic/ Hydromancy — Water Magic Witching Terramancy — Earth Magic Necromancy — Death Magic Aeromancy — Air Magic Portamancy — Gate Magic Physiomancy — Body Magic Sentient Elemental Conjuration

Prohibited Practices (please see applicable Geneva Convention Amendments):

Terramantic Animal Control (Whispering)

Offensive Physiomancy (Rending)

— Magical School Reference Wallet Card

Publication of the Supernatural Operations Corps

Britton’s feet slapped tarmac, and he jogged to a stop, wincing at scattered sharp rocks.

He recognized Route 7, snaking south between the base and his parents’ home in Shelburne, a few miles down the rural Vermont road. The sky was still dark, the road empty. He ran off the road to crouch in the bushes. Sharp branches tore at his flight suit, and the early frost blasted his feet. The gate shimmered a few feet off the road. The demon-horses sniffed tentatively from the other side, moving toward it, darting away. A moment later, the portal snapped shut. It reappeared to his left, bathing the bushes in flickering light, then vanished again.

It’s responding to my fear, he thought. I have to calm myself.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and failed to relax.

Enough, he thought, focus on what you can control. You’re injured and cold. You might make it through the night, but you’ll be caught in the daylight. You need shoes, and you need cover. They’re on the lookout for a soldier, so you need to get out of this uniform. Go.

He followed the road toward his parents’ home. If he made good enough time, he could use the spare key and grab clothing before they woke.

He had to dive for cover twice at the sound of approaching cars. He moved quickly, to warm himself as much as to cover distance. The flight suit kept him relatively warm, but after twenty minutes, he could no longer feel his hands or feet. It was a mixed blessing; his numb feet let him move faster, no longer reporting the pain of stepping on twigs and roots.

The numbness and rhythm of his movement freed his mind to reflect on how, in just a few hours, magic had taken him from army officer to fugitive.

Stop it, he told himself. If you think about this crap, it’ll slow you down. If you slow down, they’ll catch you. If they catch you, you know what they’ll do.

You’re running. So run, damn you. Run.

He forced all he had lost from his mind and moved as fast as the cover allowed. By the time Route 7 arrived in Shelburne, orange streaked the sky, and he could feel the rising sun on his back.

Route 7 gave out onto an unpaved rural route, and minutes later he stood exhausted in the driveway of his family home. As the numbness abated in the warming air, his feet reminded him of hours running across frozen grass and rocks. He looked up at the cracking paint and patched screening of the house and felt the tides of magic ebb, lulled by the familiar surroundings.

Familiar, but never a real home.

The reason for that crouched before the steps leading to the wraparound porch. Britton felt his pulse quicken, and the tide of magic surged anew.

It couldn’t have been later than six, but his father was awake and gardening despite the early fall frost. Stanley Britton’s pastel clothing flapped off his skinny body. Cheatham had once told him that there were two kinds of Marines: big and mean, or skinny and mean.

Old age had cemented his father in the skinny-and-mean variety. The retired colonel had a blade of a nose, sunken eyes, and a hard jaw, clenched to show that he still considered himself on duty. A small gold cross gleamed from his neck, refracting the growing sunlight.

Stanley moved away from the steps, attacking a line of withered dandelions. He brandished a spade like a weapon, knifing into the cold ground. Britton crept up the porch behind him.

Stanley stiffened. “Jesus withers the fig tree and leaves me with all these damned weeds. Holy Christ, give me the strength to put up with this crap.”

Britton froze, then realized his father was talking to himself. Stanley continued to follow the dandelions around the porch. Britton slipped inside, ran past the kitchen, and took the worn stairs two at a time up to his old room.

His father had converted it to storage the day Britton shipped out; the floor was heaped with cardboard boxes. A yellowing army promotional poster depicting an Apache attack helicopter was the only hint that Britton had ever lived here.

He rummaged through a box at the base of his mother’s wardrobe, packed with clothing intended for Goodwill that she’d never gotten around to giving up. He shrugged out of his flight suit and into a pair of jeans and paint-stained T-shirt. It was inadequate to the cold outside, but it was clean. More importantly, he was out of uniform and would attract no more attention than any black man in Vermont. He kicked the flight suit behind a pile of boxes and grabbed a pair of his father’s shoes and old wool socks. The shoes were a half size too large and without tread, but he was grateful to have something covering his ragged feet.

He returned to the stairs, stumbling in the oversized shoes. He bent to take them off when he heard his mother’s familiar hum.

Get moving! his mind screamed at him. You have to get out of here! But Britton drowned in the nostalgia evoked by the smell of baking and his mother’s contented hum. His legs refused to move.

Desda appeared in the hallway and froze. He recognized her apron from his youngest days: a washed-out heart with the words KISS THE COOK! in letters so faded that he read them from memory. Her gray hair was pinned into an untidy bun, her body still strong and thin despite her years.

He composed himself and descended the rest of the steps.

“Oscar!” she cried, flinging her arms around his neck. Her nose only came up to his chest, and he grinned in spite of his misery.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” she asked.

He paused, trying to fix the smell of her in his memory: perfume, sugar, and folded egg yolks.

He crushed her to him. “I love you, Mom.”

“I know, sweetie. I love you, too. Oscar, I can’t breathe.”

No time for good-byes! his mind yelled. Every second you stay here brings you closer to getting caught! Run, you damned fool! But he didn’t. He held his mother, even when the screen-door hinges announced Stanley’s entrance.

He kept his eyes closed but felt his father’s disapproving presence and the rage boiling in response.

“What’s going on, Oscar?” Stanley asked, coming to stand beside his wife. He kept his voice mild, but Britton could feel the judgment just below the surface. “You get yourself into some kind of trouble?”

“Stop it, Stanley!” she scolded.

Stanley waved his hand as if brushing away a fly. “What are you doing here?”

“Dad, can’t I just come home? Can’t a son visit his family?” Oscar asked.

“That’s crap. You never come home unless you want something,” Stanley replied.

“No, Dad, that’s crap. I never come home because it’s like walking into a freezer.”

“Come on, you two.” Desda intervened. “Oscar’s home for five minutes, and…”

But by now the familiar pattern was already playing out; both of the Britton men had their dander up.

“You’ve had a standing invitation!” Stanley said through gritted teeth. “I invite you to First Baptist every Sunday, and…”

“Oh, that’s a great idea! I can sit next to you while you pretend to be Christian.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Stanley asked, the cords on his neck standing out.

Britton held his mother close. Years and bruises had taught him that just about anything could set Stanley