Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) by Aaron Schneider (namjoon book recommendations txt) 📗

when they first met, Ambrose was one of the most slothful creatures Milo had ever met. Peculiar for a bodyguard, he spent a good deal of time sleeping or at least pretending to sleep, and the fact that Milo still couldn’t tell the difference was troubling.

Eyes closed and hands folded over his belly, Ambrose whiled away hours and hours, politely declining whenever Milo asked if they could engage in some distraction such as cards, dice, or even a smoke. If Milo did catch Ambrose while he was humoring the world with consciousness, the man would listen to Milo’s grievances with a sympathetic ear. He offered consoling noises and platitudes but he never joined in, violating the time-honored tradition of soldiers whining about their situations.

Milo slipped deeper into melancholy, until finally on that train skirting the inland sea, his reserve broke.

“Why did Lokkemand call you a deserter?”

Ambrose had been timing his snores with the rhythm of the train, but the grinding exhalations stopped as Milo finished the question. One eye slid open, pitching a bushy eyebrow upward.

Milo stared at him, refusing to hide from the pressure of the big man’s cyclopean gaze. He wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn he felt a thickening of the air, almost a pressure emanating from his bodyguard. In a way he didn’t quite understand, Milo pushed back against the pressure, feeling a strange etheric ripple in response.

Ambrose’s other eye popped open, and he regarded Milo for a second longer before closing his eyes again and baring his teeth in a dangerous smile.

“Well, will wonders never cease.” Ambrose grunted, straightening in his seat. “I think we’re going to get somewhere with you, Volkohne.”

Whether it was nerves or isolation making him raw, Milo couldn’t hide his habitual wince at the surname he despised.

“What’s that about?” Ambrose asked, then covered his mouth. “It’s not my breath, is it? Damned if my gustation doesn’t get uppity from time to time, and that gives me fierce halitosis.”

“No, not that,” Milo said quickly, though he couldn’t now escape the realization that Ambrose often smelled like pickled meat. “It’s just I don’t much like that last name.”

Ambrose’s brows gathered into a single furry knot.

“Care to illuminate me on that one?”

“Well,” Milo began but stopped and gave Ambrose a sly look. “How about you answer my question first, and then we’ll see if I’m up to sharing, eh?”

Ambrose met Milo’s eye and a passing feeling of that same pressure began to congeal between them, but then the bodyguard gave a low chuckle and shook his head in surrender.

“You win.” He grunted again, then reached inside his tortured coat and drew out a small leather wallet and a pipe. “But I think I’ll need a smoke for this conversation.”

Milo watched forlornly as the big man packed his pipe. Ambrose noticed the look and offered him the wallet, which had both tobacco and rolling papers. A pair of match strikes later, the cabin was full of aromatic smoke.

“Never had anything like this,” Milo noted after a lazy exhale, savoring the sweet, velvety flavor of the smoke.

“English Cavendish with coconut and rum,” Ambrose grunted as he took a long draw on his pipe, something old and sad swimming behind his eyes. “Traded an entire lorry of munitions for this pouch.”

He tipped his head back and blew a titanic ring, then smiled through the trailing tendrils.

“Absolutely worth it.”

Milo took another drag and cleared his throat.

“Deserter?” he prompted.

Ambrose shook his head.

“I believe the words our good captain used were ‘deserting scum,’” the big man corrected, then tapped the stem of his pipe on his lip thoughtfully. “Though I suppose if I had to choose between the two, I’d take your version.”

Milo threw a wry look to his bodyguard, prompting a nod of admission.

“I’m stalling, yes,” Ambrose confessed. “I’m not sure how much needs to be shared at the moment. Sensitive subject and all, you understand?”

“Not hardly.” Milo sighed, massaging a spot between his eyes with his thumb. “And we aren’t getting any closer to me understanding at this rate.”

Ambrose switched the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other and let out paired contrails through his nostrils.

“Captain Lokkemand, along with the entire Federated Army of the German Empire, is operating under false pretenses,” he explained. “I can only be a deserter if I swore service to the empire or was conscripted as a citizen of the empire. As neither is true, I’m merely an expatriate caught up in a case of mistaken identity.”

Milo frowned, and his eyes wandered to the archaic Prussian uniform.

“So, is this some sort of political statement?” he asked, gesturing to the faded blue fabric and dingy brass buttons. “A protest against the unification of your country?”

Ambrose looked down at his uniform as if considering it for the first time.

“Not my country.” He shrugged. “Prussians, Bavarians, Saxons, and every last gutter-tongued Hun can call themselves whatever they want. I just put the thing on a few years ago and haven’t seen fit to replace it.”

Milo tried to process the comments, all given in impeccable German.

“Wait, so you aren’t German?”

“Never said I was,” Ambrose replied flatly.

“So, what are you?” Milo asked, sitting back as he cast a speculative gaze toward the big man. “And how did you get this assignment if you aren’t even a soldier?”

“What I am is your bodyguard, and your best hope of surviving that worm-nest we’re about to crawl through,” Ambrose said coolly, pointing his pipe at Milo. “I’d think that after that dustup at the depot, you’d understand how I got the job.”

A ripple of muscles that could not have been coincidence moved across Ambrose’s frame, and Milo vividly recalled the sickening sound of a man’s arm snapping like wet kindling.

“I’m not one of you dandy soldiers, but I’m the best God-cursed warrior this side of the Apocalypse,” he stated, his voice low and heavy. “I killed men good and bad in more wars than you have fingers and toes before your mother even met your father. I’m