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

but it seemed that his short furlough had indelibly marked him to assume, at least subconsciously, that it would always be so.

What had Ezekiel Boucher learned that Milo hadn’t? What creature had shared its dark arts with the despicable man so that he could inflict wounds that denied healing both magical and mundane?

He can’t tell you, now can he? Milo thought, welcoming the memory of the madman’s final moments. Milo told himself it was his well-honed survival instincts that could gauge the utter depravity of a man like Ezekiel. However, he imagined even a half-witted rube could have spent one minute with the American and understood him to be reprobate of the lowest order.

“Maybe I wasn’t the only one,” Milo said with a meaningful glance at Ambrose’s boots. “Before he met you, that is.”

Ambrose looked down, and a sudden grim smile spread across his face.

“I don’t often take pleasure in killing a man,” Ambrose said, his voice lower and thicker, “but I’m not going to pretend that ending that monster wasn’t satisfying.”

Milo nodded, agreeing that if anyone had deserved such an end, it was the scalp-hunting American. The sight of him gleefully hoisting the trophy carved from the fallen Beli was something that would not leave the dark and bitter corners of his mind any time soon. The way the wounds had seemed fouled and corroded on the dead titan had seemed like a greater insult than the injuries.

Milo straightened, his mind struggling to accelerate despite his hunger and fatigue.

“Where are Beli's and Meinir’s bodies?” he asked, throwing off the covers and climbing hastily if unsteadily to his feet. “If I can examine their wounds, maybe take samples, I might be able to figure out what is wrong with Rihyani.”

Reverse-engineering magic, especially magic he was unfamiliar with, was doubtful, but not impossible. He wasn’t sure about the burial customs of fey, but he was sure that both of the contessa’s companions would have been glad to not have their deaths be in vain.

Ambrose blinked at Milo as the magus retrieved his coat from the foot of the bed, straightening as he slid it on.

“Where are the bodies?” Milo asked again, testing his repaired leg, thankful for only a hint of stiffness.

“They weren’t there when Lokkemand and crew got there.” Ambrose sighed. “The fey bodies and the Americans. Seems like the Georgians scooped up everything before getting out of there. Lokkemand said they didn’t make contact with the enemy after two wide sweeps of the area.”

Milo ground his teeth in frustration. Nothing could be easy, could it?

“Damn! Where is Lokkemand?”

“In his office,” Ambrose answered, his frown deepening. “Wait, why couldn’t you take samples from Rihyani?”

“I could,” Milo acknowledged, moving toward the door. “But since we think it is actively malignant magic, it could react badly to my magic.”

“Your blood-changing bit didn’t seem to bother it,” the big man pointed out as he followed Milo into the corridor. The fortress at Shatili was a venerable military structure, designed so that even when enemies breached the exterior walls, defenders could mount a strong opposition. The hallways were tight passages where only one man could pass easily, so Ambrose was forced to follow as the magus stalked toward Lokkemand’s office at the center of the complex.

“The magic had already happened by the time the blood reached her,” Milo explained. “Whatever is doing this to her wouldn’t have sensed the magic I was using because it was done, inert, finished.”

Ambrose’s brows knit as they hustled into the heart of the complex.

“When will she need more blood?” Milo asked.

“Not sure. Maybe a day or two,” Ambrose confessed as they rounded a corner and came within sight of the small antechamber that led to the captain’s room. A soldier stood guard in the room, which was furnished with a small rug and a wooden chair, as though Lokkemand expected that his appointments might need a place to sit while they waited for him.

“I should be able to give again,” Milo muttered mostly to himself.

“Not sure that’s how it—” Ambrose began as they moved into the antechamber before Milo cut him off.

“Magic,” Milo interjected before turning to the straightening soldier in front of the door. “I need to see Captain Lokkemand. Is he in?”

The soldier, who would have been classically handsome with his strong chin and dark, lively eyes if not for a crooked nose and a goat-toothed mouth, eyed Milo. What was possibly habitual defiance seemed ready to creep into his stance until he met Milo’s pale eyes. Whatever he saw gave him pause.

“Yes,” he replied with the slightest nod.

“Yes, sir,” Milo snapped. He still wasn’t sure of his position, but he’d been given the black coat of an officer, so not acting like he was an officer confused the men.

“Yes, sir,” the guard replied with only a little sullenness in his voice. “But he said he was drafting a report or something. He instructed me to not let him be interrupted, sir.”

“I’m afraid this can’t wait for paperwork,” Milo said, straightening a little to leverage his greater height. “Open the door, or get out of my way so I can.”

The soldier stared at Milo for a second, his eyes searching the wizard’s, then, uncomfortable with what he saw, they dropped to Milo’s shoulders and the black coat covering them. That seemed to seal the deal, and with a muttered apology, he opened the door, stepping aside to let Milo pass as he began his speaking.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Cap—”

“But certain things can’t wait,” Milo interrupted, sweeping past the soldier. Ambrose ambled after in his wake.

Lokkemand sat at the far end of what might have been the castellan’s war room, a square apartment where rustic tables were pushed together in a large rectangle. Lokkemand’s files, maps, and various other forms of paperwork were spread across the tables, obviously possessing some order that was unclear to anyone except the captain. Lokkemand was standing over the maps, arms crossed with his chin in one hand. He did not