by Myke Cole
“Shut the hell up, Dawes,” Cheatham said. “I’ve got this.”
“Let me go, Dan,” Britton said. “You saw what they did to that girl. They’ll kill me.”
“You don’t know that, sir. You haven’t attacked anyone with it.” Cheatham sounded lighthearted, but he held Britton’s arm like a vise. He moved to block the door. “Maybe they’ll ship you off to one of those Marine Suppression Lances, or you can go into the monitoring program at NIH…Maybe they’ll take you to that secret base and train you.”
“There is no secret base! You don’t believe that conspiracy-theory crap! Probes don’t get a break! They disappear!” Britton shouted. “Christ, Dan! How long have we worked together? You’ve got to help me!”
Boots pounded in the hallway. Dawes sat up, wincing in pain, and shouted, “In here! Help!”
Britton leveled the pistol at Cheatham’s face. “Let me go, Dan. Christ as my witness, I will shoot you.”
Cheatham didn’t budge. “Go ahead, sir. How far do you think you’ll get? You give me the gun and turn yourself in now, and you have a chance. You run, you’re already dead.”
Two Military Police officers appeared in the doorway, pistols drawn. One gasped at the sight of the creature. The other leveled his gun at Britton, “Drop your weapon, sir! Get down on the ground! Right now!”
Another gate slid open to Britton’s side. Beyond it, he could see the plain again, rough grasses rustling in the wind.
Britton’s eyes flicked to the MPs, then to Cheatham. It was his chance to turn himself in, to lean on the system he’d faithfully served to protect him.
But his mind’s eye was blotted out by the image of the dead girl’s face. His ears rang with the sound of the single shot that cut off her life, echoing off the school’s rooftop.
Cheatham grasped the pistol barrel, still pointed at his face, “So, sir. You gonna shoot me?”
“Hell, Dan,” Britton said, “you know I wouldn’t shoot you.”
Britton let go of the pistol, slamming his knee into the warrant officer’s groin, hauling Cheatham’s body between himself and the MPs.
“Sorry, Dan,” Britton said, and shoved him hard into the MPs, then turned and ran for the gate.
Britton heard the sharp report of a pistol and felt a burning in his calf. He struck the gate, rippling edges breaking apart to admit him.
Oscar Britton landed hard on rough grass, pitching forward under an unfamiliar sky.
CHAPTER III: THE OTHER SIDE
…factors play into Manifestation. Sex and physique have a bearing. Calm males of larger size tend toward Terramancy. Women Manifest in Hydromancy or Physiomancy more frequently than men. Dreamers and mavericks wind up as Aeromancers. Caustic, passionate types show up as Pyromancers. The National Institute of Health continues with the famed Sierra Twenty-Six study group…
— Avery Whiting
Modern Arcana: Theory and Practice
Britton fell, skinning his hands.
He paused, breathing hard. All was silent and dark, a cool wind gently rippling over his back. He closed his eyes. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. The gunshot still rang in his ears, the shouts of the MPs, Cheatham’s grip on his arm.
Breathe, he told himself, just breathe.
His heartbeat finally slowed, and he stood.
The gate was gone. The landscape was washed in bright light from a full moon, massive and close. The light mostly blotted out the weird stars, but he could make out a few, shining bigger than any he’d ever seen. He shivered as the breeze picked up. To one side, the plain ended at a line of smooth-trunked, straight evergreen trees stretching past his vision. On the other, it extended into darkness and the faint sound of rushing water. From somewhere in the forest, a bird called — a mournful sound, haunting and alien.
The magical tide still coursed through him. He could feel it bleeding into the air, mixing with the flow surrounding him, currents within currents.
Raw magic, heady and powerful.
It’s all around me, he thought. This is where it comes from.
He sucked in air, the sweetest he’d ever tasted. It washed away his weariness. He blinked at the giant moon, marveling at its brightness. The ground glowed with vibrant color despite the dark.
One thing was clear. Wherever he was, it was not earth.
They’d talked about it in training, vague hints of the space where magic came from, but they’d also been clear that it was like the surface of the sun. No human could ever survive there, not for an instant.
But Britton was very much alive. And judging from the birdsong, so were others. What else was over here?
Enough. You’ve got bigger fish to fry. He inspected his injuries. The bullet had grazed his calf, digging a shallow furrow in the muscle. The wound bled slow and steady. His hands were badly abraded. His landing had shredded his socks, skinning his feet. Even pain was a newly heightened experience here; the intensity of feeling overwhelmed him.
He limped toward the sound of running water.
After a few minutes, the sound grew louder, chiming like bells. Moonlight sparkled on a rushing stream. The grass grew shorter and softer as the ground dipped to form banks dotted with smooth pebbles, shining like diamonds under the moon’s glow. Fireflies darted above the water, bright with flashing patterns — purple, red, bright blue. He stared, amazed at the clarity of his vision in the strange air. After a moment, he realized that the fireflies were actually tiny birds, jeweled feathers dancing with inner light, pointed crystal beaks opening and closing silently. Their wings blurred in tiny circles, sounding faintly like clinking glasses.
Hard rocks ground into his feet as he picked his way to the streambed. The glowing birds scattered at his approach.
He thrust his hands into the cool water, the touch of the liquid as amazing as it was painful. He sat, hypnotized by the sensation, for a full minute before he brought his hands together, washing them clean. He took a double handful of water and drank, thrilling at the sharp, metallic flavor.
He turned to the slowly bleeding wound in his calf. He washed it, the water simultaneously agonizing and thrilling the wound. He took off one tattered sock, rinsed it as best he could, then tied it tightly around the calf. The fabric went tacky with blood, but the fibers sank into the furrow, sealing it temporarily.
He stood, the wind whipping over him, his mind going over the events of the past few hours. “I don’t believe this,” he said, his words carrying on the air.
“Dun beleeve thass…” a high-pitched keening answered, mocking his words. Across the stream, the moonlight silhouetted a cluster of horselike shapes. Each snout terminated in a single pointed spike-shaped tooth. Long catlike tails lashed as they sniffed the air.
“Dun beleeve thass?” the creatures crooned. One bent to lap the water.
The rest jogged forward, pausing and sniffing the water’s surface before splashing across.
Britton took a step backward, his calf reminding him of the wound. “Oh, God.”
“Aw gud aw gud aw gud…” the things keened excitedly, advancing to a trot. The two closest lowered their long necks and put on speed.
Britton turned and ran.
He ignored his calf, running for all he was worth. The rough edges of the grass sawed at his feet. He could hear the pack behind him, gaining steadily.
He risked a look over his shoulder. They were on his heels, necks straining, wind coursing through tufts of spotted hair. Their hooves pounded the ground, nostrils flaring, wicked distortions somewhere between demon and horse. The single spike tooth on each snout jutted toward his back.
He put on a burst of speed, his calf screaming. He felt the magical tide surge with his mounting terror. The tree line remained far away. He’d never make it.
He heard a snort. Hot breath gusted against his neck.
He cried out, and the pack answered him with keening howls. His magical tide answered as well, exploding and rippling out from him through the in
terlocking streams all around, opening a gate a few yards to his left.
He pivoted sharply, running for it. He felt one of the spike teeth slice through the air behind him. The pack keened in frustration, sliding as they turned to follow.
The change in direction bought him a few moments. He closed the distance, shouting as he leapt through a gate for the second time that night.
CHAPTER IV: HOMECOMING
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?” St
anley 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 off. Better not to risk opening his mouth. But the events of the last few hours, and his one hope of refuge evaporating, made him careless.
“Where in the Bible does it tell you to hit your wife? Where does it tell you to hit your son?” Oscar asked.
“Oscar, please!” Desda’s voice was pleading.
But the magical tide didn’t care. It surged with Britton’s fury and sadness. He pushed against it, but it was useless. The air in the kitchen archway shimmered, folded in on itself, and resolved into the static light of an open gate.
Stanley’s eyes shot wide, but Desda continued to look at her son.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Oscar said quickly.
“Sweet Jesus,” Stanley said, backing away.
“What’s wrong?” Desda asked, turning. She froze as she saw the gate.
“Oh my God,” Stanley breathed. “You’re one of those…one of those damned Selfers. This is un-friggin-believable!” He invoked his single response to all unexpected events — anger, but still moved backward, bumping the front door. He fumbled for the handle.
“My God, Oscar,” Desda whispered, “are you doing that?”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Oscar said, his eyes wet. “I love you.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “This isn’t right. I’m your mother, Oscar, I would have known.”
Stanley tore his eyes off the gate. “For Christ’s sake, Dez! Get the hell away from him!” he shouted, reaching for her but not daring to come closer.
Oscar could hear faint keening from the gate. The demon-horses were not far away.
Desda didn’t move. “No, no. This isn’t right. Not right.”
“It’s just a thing, like acne or chicken pox,” Oscar said with a certainty he didn’t feel. “I don’t have a choice. It’s going to be okay.”
She continued to shake her head.
The gate flickered, snapped shut, reopened deeper into the kitchen, then disappeared.