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

that it wasn’t going to be as easy as baring our teeth and scaring a few villagers. We needed tools and allies, even among the humans we went to war against. He was the one who gave me the knowledge to seek Kimaris and bind him. he…he—aghhh!”

The shade twisted sharply, the movement so violent and distorting it would have snapped the spine of a living creature. Its ragged arms flew over its head in a warding gesture as it shook and gibbered. Wisps of smoke curled up from its body and hair, and a shriek of blood-chilling intensity tore from its spectral throat.

“IT HURTS! STYX! IBLIS! I BURN! I BURN!”

Translucent ghostly flames began to bloom across its form, and the room filled with the faint smell of ash.

“Anything you can do to stop it?” Ambrose called from behind Milo, hands pressed to his ears. “You were finally getting somewhere!”

Milo shook his head as the shade began to flail and scrabble.

This was how all the interrogations ended. Anything that could remind the shade of Kimaris had a chance to connect to the traumatic memories of Imrah’s final moments of self-immolation before being crushed and devoured by the gelatinous demon. Once the shade began to burn, any further communication was pointless, the violence of the memory overwhelming everything else.

“REST,” he intoned, forcing the frustration out of his mind by raw will as he drove it back into the ensorcelled box. If he interacted with the shade’s essence with any strong emotion, there was a chance it could provide an anchor for connection even now.

“It hurts!” it sobbed even as it began to shrink and thin to translucency, drawn inexorably into the vessel. “Milo, please! It hurts so much! Help me, please! HELP ME!”

A few more seconds and Milo could see through the shade and into the box. The interior was plain wood enclosed a pitted skull and a few fractured bones, the last remains of Imrah Marid.

“I never could,” he said softly as he bent over the box, ignoring the fading image of the ghul’s fire-wreathed form. “She never let me.”

“What was that?” Ambrose asked.

“Nothing,” Milo said flatly.

With an effort both magical and physical, the magus closed the box and replaced the lock.

“Do you think it was true?” Ambrose asked the next morning.

Milo had been too drained to carry on much of a conversation after interrogating the shade. They’d emerged from the depths of the Shatili fortress, thankful the misdirection fetish he’d hung over the dungeon stairs had kept the other occupants ignorant, and headed back to Milo’s study. They hid the box again, stored the unused ingredients, and with hardly a word between them, Milo went to bed to endure dark dreams.

Milo had not known pleasant sleep many nights of his short, hard life, and becoming a magus had not improved the quality thus far.

After waking and going through the motions of getting ready for the day, Ambrose came in with breakfast, which the two had on the balcony of Milo’s study.

Milo sat munching bacon and considering Ambrose’s question as he stared at the green slope of the mountain arm sweeping around Shatili. Despite everything he’d endured, Milo could not deny that Georgia was a beautiful country, especially since the green of spring had taken hold. The land was rugged, with climbing outcrops of rock and steep cliffs in abundance, but it was a living land where wooded valleys nestled between the verdant carpeted slopes. He’d never felt at home anywhere, but he liked to imagine that here among the Greater Caucasus Mountains, he could find a little cabin or village to live for a few quiet years, maybe even a lifetime.

That dream would have to wait until he’d ensured this land wasn’t overrun by the Ewiges Reich’s cronies.

“I’m not sure how much was true,” Milo said at last. “But if there is a possibility that it is, we are dealing with a Guardian higher up the chain of command than Imrah.”

Ambrose grunted and took a drink of coffee, then grimaced before eyeing the bottom of his cup in disappointment.

“Which means he’s liable to be even more dangerous.” The bodyguard sighed as he lowered his cup. “Probably has a whole stable of demons at his beck and call.”

Milo gnawed through the last of his bacon, which was gristlier than he liked, but he savored it all the same. With a final swallow, he frowned upon seeing that Ambrose hadn’t procured some other flesh for him to savor. It turned out that magic was a tiring business, and about the only thing that seemed to put him right was meat and lots of it.

“Maybe.” Milo grunted, licking grease from his lips, the motion bittersweet in its intensity. “But last I checked, we were veteran demon slayers.”

Ambrose gave an incredulous huff as he drew out his pipe and began to pack the bowl with tobacco. “One hellspawn destroyed with pluck and good fortune does not a demon slayer make,” he intoned sagely before leaning forward expectantly, pipe stem between his teeth.

“You're telling me you don’t have matches?” Milo asked even as he reached inside his coat to nick his thumb.

Ambrose cocked an eyebrow and gave a meaningful look at the tobacco pouch sitting on the small table between them.

“You are telling me you won’t want some of my premium tobacco?”

Milo gave a resigned sigh, and with a snap, offered his burning thumb.

After gentle coaxing, the pipe was lit, and Ambrose settled back into his chair.

“I’ll be honest, Magus,” Ambrose began after sending out a pair of smoke rings to follow each other. “This whole business of chasing Guardians and working with the Shepherds makes me nervous.”

Milo nodded but didn’t speak as he fetched rolling papers from one of his coat’s many internal magical pockets. Ambrose took another draw on his pipe and let it spiral out in an impressive corkscrew before continuing.

“Maybe it’s because I’ve spent my long life fighting wars against men. Men are simple, fragile things, and I know