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

like this. A few times as he moved about the yards, he’d almost forgotten he wasn’t Murdoch.

He’d forgotten he was still wearing the suit until the telegram beeped to life. He jumped, and his newly top-heavy frame made him topple to one side, catching himself on the wall with Murdoch’s long arms. Reinhart felt the uncanny realization of how impossible this all was gnawing like a rodent on the back of his mind. He shoved the thoughts aside, though, as he righted himself and moved over to listen to the message coming over the secret line.

e-x-t-r-a-c-t-i-m-m-e-d-i-a-t-e (Stop) u-s-e-t-u-n-n-e-l (Stop) b-r-i-n-g-s-u-i-t (Stop)

Reinhart was more than a little surprised by the message: why so soon? Had he been compromised?

As he cast a glance around the room, the warm sense of belonging vanished. Reinhart remembered that he was a German spy in a city of military significance belonging to a sworn enemy of his country. If he was compromised, and every instinct told him that must be why they were in such a rush, death would be the best he could hope for if he was caught. He might have minutes before black-booted brutes came storming down the stairwell that was supposed to be a secret in the tenement building he was lurking under.

His mind racing, he snatched up what few effects he’d brought with him, shoved them into a bag, and turned a wide circle in the small room to see if he’d missed anything. As he did so, his protuberant stomach knocked over the print of the old yards, sending it clattering to the floor.

It was then that he remembered he was still wearing the suit and looked like Murdoch. If he darted down the trapdoor and squeezed his way through the tunnel to the canal, there was a good chance his boatman out of Newcastle would shoot him. They were expecting Percival Reinhart after all, short, svelte, and he flattered himself to think shockingly handsome. When a heavyset, hairy-armed man with a weak chin and a patchy mustache plopped down, they’d probably toss him into the drink on principle.

Reinhart looked about for the box containing the knife, and, spotting it on the nightstand, lunged for it. Extricating himself from this second skin might take time he didn’t have, but leaving it on was not an option.

He made it four steps before his foot turned on the floor, and he fell just out of reach of the box, fingers scraping wood.

Reinhart glared at the treacherous floor, wondering what had happened. The spy knew he was a graceful man, the finest dancer he knew, and tripping on the floor like this was singularly uncharacteristic. Looking down, he saw nothing for him to trip on, but he remembered losing his balance from the telegram and assumed it had something to do with the suit. Moving as quickly as he had must have set off the bigger man’s more precarious balance. That was it.

Muttering curses under his breath, he grabbed the edge of the cot to lever himself up onto his knees and reached for the box.

Coming on like a sudden muscle spasm, his left leg shot back behind him, and his right knee twisted inward. Reinhart pitched forward, one hand slapping the edge of the nightstand. He managed a cry of surprise that was cut short by his face bouncing off the stone floor. Eyes bursting with a kaleidoscope of rainbow light, the spy lay upon the floor, legs uncomfortably askew, trying to figure out what was happening.

The blow to his head didn’t make that endeavor any easier, but he didn’t have long to wait until further evidence appeared. Reinhart, face still pressed to the floor, felt a prickle of fear race up his back and burrow into his brain, as with agonizing slowness, he felt his body inching away from the nightstand.

He wasn’t moving a muscle, but of its own volition, it seemed, his body was slithering backward across the floor.

He remembered then that the instructions had told him to keep the knife on his person at all times while wearing the suit. He remembered those odd warnings that had talked about the suit almost like a living thing. He remembered that everything seemed to have been moved around in the apartment.

As though sensing his rising panic, the skin that was not his compelled his limbs to scuttle backward faster. Feeling a scream form in his chest, Reinhart fought the movement, compelling his muscles to oppose the constricting pressure that manipulated them like a puppet.

He writhed on the floor, straining every muscle in his body to assert some control. He needed to reach the knife, needed to get this thing off him.

Spittle began to froth around his gritted teeth, and every second seemed impossible, but somehow Reinhart felt himself winning the battle against the suit. He managed to twist onto his back and then to sit up, though his arms and legs twitched and seized as the struggle continued. He convinced himself that he could feel the suit tiring, its strength slackening. His muscles were burning with exertion, but the suit was losing its hold with every frothing breath he took.

Then his right arm seemed free, and he threw himself toward the box from his seat on the floor. His hand overshot the box, and he knocked his elbow on the edge of the stand. The impact sent a tingling shock up his arm, and in that moment of weakness, the suit struck, seeming to throw its whole energy into his numbed right arm.

Unfamiliar fingers—Murdoch’s fingers—wrapped around Reinhart’s throat and began to squeeze.

1

The Error

Milo heard the dogs barking and knew he’d taken too long.

The whole farmstead would be awake very soon if they weren’t already, and then things would become interesting.

Gloved hands in the smoking chimney and with soot smeared across his face, Milo glared down at the dogs in the yard below. They’d been more than happy to take the scraps of meat he’d brought to distract them, but with