Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) by Aaron Schneider (best color ereader .TXT) 📗

quickly, shaking his head so hard he thought he might become dizzy. “That is a used soul-well. Its shades were already expended, and in fact, the last shade went into the skin-coat you had me make a month or so ago.”

Milo's stomach twisted as he watched Jorge’s smile vanish. It was like winter claiming a lake, a chill creeping in until there was nothing except a cold, hard expression. Milo knew the truth, but as he tried to force the words out, he found his tongue rebelling.

“The fetish, that is, the skin-coat…something went wrong?”

Jorge placed the defunct soul-well down on the desk, and without a word, shuffled over to Milo’s desk chair. Milo quickly and with a few muttered apologies got out of the way and stood waiting as the colonel eased himself into the stiff wooden chair.

Milo fought back the urge to make excuses or justifications.

He’d told Lokkemand, and by extension Jorge, all the reasons why just handing magical creations to German soldiers or operatives wouldn’t work, but they’d insisted that Milo’s function was to help them win the war. Saying this was the reason for his addictive binging on nightwatch would be a half-truth, but it was part of it. Yet, making excuses to Jorge now, with his eyes ready to pierce him to the marrow, seemed incredibly stupid.

The colonel had heard his protests, his complaints. Repeating them wouldn’t change anything.

“The skin-coat allowed the operation to be completed flawlessly, especially in conjunction with the healing unguent you provided two months ago,” Jorge said very slowly, his eyes never leaving Milo’s face. “However, future use of skin-coats for infiltration is suspended indefinitely.”

Milo forcibly swallowed the “Why?” before his mouth opened, deciding to nod instead.

Jorge steepled his fingers to tap his chin, clearly in no hurry. When Milo made no further response, the colonel bobbed his head in appreciation and continued.

“The agent who was using the skin-coat was very nearly killed when he tried to remove it,” Jorge explained, his voice as even and steady as a man reading a routine expense report. “It appears that the shade you bound to it had different ideas.”

Milo felt himself deflate but fought to keep his composure, spine straight, eyes forward, maybe a little bit like Lokkemand.

“So, the healing unguent saved him,” Milo said pensively. “That’s something, at least.”

Jorge looked up sharply, then slowly nodded.

“No, the unguent was used to inflict a tumorous growth on the man he was imitating,” Jorge corrected with a frown. “We couldn’t have the man going around undoing what the agent had done. The growth put the man in the hospital, and he was unable to ascertain the changes he made.”

Milo stared, feeling an off-beat rhythm in his chest at the thought of his attempt at healing being used to critically poison a man, even if he was technically his enemy.

“They tried the unguent on a minor hand wound, and the man’s hand swelled horribly,” Jorge explained, pre-empting Milo’s question about how they knew the unguent would do such dastardly work. “The man’s wound closed, but excising the excess tissue required additional surgery. Not exactly the miracle we’d hoped.”

Milo nodded, swallowing hard but still maintaining his decorum. Months of work fit for the latrine or worse.

“Well then,” Milo said, not allowing his voice to tremble, “I suppose we should get to the question you wanted to ask me, sir.”

Jorge nodded, the measured rise and fall of his chin signaling he’d been waiting for Milo to make the invitation.

“What am I going to do with you, Milo?”

The words hung in the air, and in the stillness, Jorge produced his cigarette tin.

Without a word, Jorge offered Milo one, then took one himself. The colonel began to probe his pockets for matches, but Milo waved off the search. His hand dipped inside his coat and emerged one thumb smeared in red. With a snap, the resin sprouted a blue flame Milo used to light the colonel’s tobacco and then his own.

Another snap and Milo’s thumb was free of flame, with only a small patina of ash left in testimony.

“Quite the trick.” Jorge sniffed before drawing deeply and letting a slow stream of smoke slide between his lips. “That was blood on your thumb, wasn’t it?”

Milo nodded as he held the first lungful of smoke for one second of searing savor.

“Razor stitched into the lining of your coat?” Jorge asked, rolling the cigarette between his fingers.

Milo nodded again.

“Old habits die hard.” Milo sighed into a blue-gray cloud.

A short chuckle and a crooked smile on Jorge’s face, and the two lapsed into soft, burning exhalations.

The silence deepened, and Milo let his chin drift toward his chest as he leaned against a table across from his desk. Curls of smoke wound out of his nostrils as he contemplated the floor and the yawning future.

“I told Lokkemand it wasn’t going to work,” Milo said at last without looking up. “I can keep trying, but there is a reason I’m the first wizard. No other human can do what I do.”

Jorge’s eyes penetrated the streams of tobacco smoke as he studied Milo’s bowed head.

“No, they can’t,” the colonel agreed.

“You either need something to activate the essence, or you need activated essence in the form of a shade,” Milo continued. “If a person could activate the essence, they’d be a wizard, and a shade can only be controlled by a wizard.”

Jorge took an empty glass and tapped his ash. “So, it either doesn’t work, or it has a mind of its own,” he said, a hint of weariness in his voice. “Neither of which are acceptable for military purposes.”

“Or any other purpose.” Milo chuckled wryly as he raised his head and stared at the cigarette in his hand. “I could give you matches that don’t work, or ones that might cook the man carrying them. As I told Lokkemand, it won’t work.”

Jorge stroked his chin, eyes narrowing as he watched the insistent magus.

“I think you are far too hard on the dear captain,” Jorge observed, his head