The caravan started moving again, and after going through several twists and turns, the school came into view. “Damn!” Vernon had gone to a stuffed-to-the-brim public school where half the classes were in barely-air-conditioned trailers. This place was fucking Versailles in comparison.
Buildings of complementary architectural styles were spread over several acres; including a large library, football stadium, field house, gym with attached Olympic-regulation aquatic center, and what had to be some type of concert hall. Practice fields for a variety of sports extended into the distance where they ended at a tall brick wall and wrought-iron fence. Beyond the fence was the small town that only survived by the good graces of the school. Apparently, the caravan had come in the back to avoid disturbing the students and locals.
The vehicles pulled into a circular drive in front of a large building named after someone Vernon didn’t know of, or care about. All that mattered was that it was the administration building, which was where they needed to kick this whole thing off.
“And see how much of a pain in the ass this is going to be,” he thought.
He’d already seen runes etched into buildings and concealed from mundane eyes. He doubted Sheriff Wood even knew they were there. His own modicum of talent with the arcane arts allowed him to pierce the magical veil.
There were several types of magic wielders in the world. Elemental mages were the most common with their power over the elements, but Vernon didn’t have those abilities. He was a Theurgy Mage: a magic-wielder who used rituals and ceremonies to achieve a desired outcome. As far as pros and cons went, theurgy did not have the immediate adaptability of elementals. In combat situations, adaptability was key, so his talents didn’t necessarily line up with his combat-oriented job.
However, while lacking adaptability in the moment, theurgy was extremely far-reaching in general. Elementals had a lot of uses for their abilities, but a mage like Vernon could literally do anything if he had enough time, power, and resources to prepare. Knowing his life depended on it, he’d put in the time to make his preparations. The UN provided the resources, so his only limits were his own power. As far as power went, he was low-mid tier, but with the right spells, he was absolutely deadly.
Case and point; what he was wearing, and the custom Colt Frontiers in his shoulder holsters. As far as ops went, this had a low threat level; but that didn’t mean he’d come unprepared. He had on his usual boots, tactical pants, a turtleneck, and leather jacket to ward off the early-autumn chill. Every bit of his clothing had been etched with protective wards. Those wards would stand up to heavy-caliber bullets, and even reduce the kinetic bleed-through to a degree. He made sure they were fully charged on the train. So, on top of his shifter strength and speed, he was wearing the equivalent of steel armor plating; and all in a comfortable cotton-synthetic weave.
The protection wards had taken time and power to etch into the clothes, but he hadn’t been willing to take the UN-issued uniform. Like a soldier with their weapon, any good mage wanted to make sure they understood the magic they were using inside and out. Something being wrong with the ward could lead to a deadly feedback loop that would straight-up kill you, or burn you out. Burn out could last for hours, days, months, or forever; completely shutting off a mage’s ability to work magic. That frequently led to severe depression and eventual suicide.
It all depended on how hard you pushed yourself. Vernon had only burned out once before. It felt like being sucker punched in the back of the skull, kicked in the balls, all on top of being in the middle of the worst hangover of your life; plus, a bad mushroom trip just because the universe was an evil bitch. Needless to say, he never wanted to go through that again.
He fingered the handles of his Colt, a nervous habit he’d developed after years of hunting people and creatures that tried to kill him. The Colts were his pride and joy. To the mundane observer, they looked like any other pair of six-shooters straight out of a western film. To a mage, they were worlds beyond those antiquated firearms.
Each of the chambers was covered in runes, whose purpose was to connect the chamber to a section of sub-space Vernon had created to hold special ammunition. Unlike other revolvers, the chambers in his Colts didn’t rotate unless he changed the barrels manually. That sounded stupid, but there was a reason for that. Most importantly, it didn’t affect his rate of fire. As long as he had ammo stored, every time he pulled the trigger the pistol fired a round.
It took different ammunition to kill different things. At the moment, he had varying amounts of five different types of ammunition that affected different supernatural creatures to one degree or another. The sixth and final chamber was for good, old-fashioned, .44 caliber lead to deal with humans. As deadly as vamps, shifters, cabals of demon creatures, and other magic-wielders were; humans were no less of a pain in the ass.
Each mission started with a decision: what ammunition was he going to need to get the job done. Normally, if he was going to a school, he would set it for lightning rounds. The rounds were exactly what they sounded like. In his free time, he spent time
