Control Point by Myke Cole Read Free Book Online

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 andrippling out from him through the interlocking 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