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

objects. The text made reference to how fey worked their sorcery spontaneously and the Hiisani used ritual invocations. That information was lost on Milo, but the text then stated how ghul magic—the superior magic, it insisted—was not just in alchemical reactions but in objects created or treated with such reactions. It went on to say that the only ones who came close were the Dwarrow, and its brief thoughts on those creatures and their works were dismissively bitter and scornful.

Milo made a mental note that ghuls didn’t mind letting others know how they felt about the Dwarrow and their works.

“Most of this seems edible,” Ambrose said mostly to himself. “Rice, beans, some dried meats, though I won’t ask what animal it came from.”

Milo ignored the bodyguard’s dark chuckles as the text laid out the most common categories of ghul magic.

There were elixirs that were ingredients and sources of essence. These were meant to be ingested or injected into the body, and Milo supposed the regenerative draught Imrah had made was an example. It went on to describe fetishes, which were pieces of dead beings, beast or otherwise, “treated” with alchemical ingredients and then used through commands to create magical effects. The skull lamp sprang to mind as he read the description, and despite himself, Milo felt a small surge of pride. Before he’d even known what they were, he’d created his first fetish.

“Some of these bits have me stumped,” Ambrose called, his rustling among the crates obnoxious to the engrossed Milo. “And you’ve got to remember I’ve been a lot of places and eaten a lot of strange things. Hello, what’s this?”

Milo grunted irritably, turning his back so he could not see what Ambrose held−an ovoid shape with a glossy nightshade shell.

“Maybe an egg?” Ambrose muttered as he set it down on the counter and fished out two more from a small sack. “Had some soup with eggs in it in the Orient when I was fighting for Tsar Nikki in the Aughts. Willing to give it a try?”

“That’s just fine,” Milo answered peevishly as he set to reading about animates both corporeal and incorporeal.

Corporeal animates were broken down into two categories: the Qareen, which were animated corpses like the skeletal porters, and the Homunculi, which were fabricated from multiple bodies or even inorganic material, like the Gate that had let them pass into the Underworld. The incorporeal animates had their own divisions as well, with the Hatif and Si’lats. Hatif were shades that were incapable of interacting with the physical world, apart from being seen and heard when they wished. Si’lats, on the other hand, were…

The crash of pans and an oath in a language Milo didn’t recognize came from across the room, jarring Milo from his reading. With a frustrated growl, he slapped his papers down and sprang from the couch toward the kitchenette.

“Not to be ungrateful,” he snarled, “but could you please—”

The words died in his mouth as he saw Ambrose scrambling over crates and sacks, trying to fence with a flying horror with only a small bronze paring knife. The intruder in their kitchen was black and granular, as though its body was made from glistening black sand condensed into a shape that was part scorpion, part bat. Erratic wingbeats sprayed black grit at the bodyguard’s face, while a stinging tail jabbed at his chest.

By reflex, Milo groped at his waist. He found his belt and pistol weren’t there, having been left lying on the bed after his trip to the lavatory.

Cursing with each breath, he vaulted over the couches and low tables as Ambrose frantically parried stab after stab. Milo snatched the pistol, drew and cocked it fluidly, and spun.

The monster had chased Ambrose into the common room, and with his door hanging open, Milo could draw a bead on it.

“Drop!” Milo shouted, hoping to God that he’d been heard as he started snapping off shots.

Ambrose dove and flattened as much as his lumpy frame would allow as bullet after bullet ripped through the apartment with echoing cracks. The bullets struck home, launching jets of black grit behind the abomination with each strike. Milo’s ears were ringing so loudly by the time he reached the end of the magazine that he didn’t hear the customary twang. He managed a useless pull of the trigger before he noted the open mechanism on top.

The flapping fiend turned its malformed face toward Milo, mouth opening to reveal gnashing mandibles. Its tail, arching beneath its punctured form, it launched toward Milo as he spun to grab his belt and the extra magazine that hung from it.

Seeing the speed of the demonic creature and the lack of effect of all eight shots, Milo knew in his heart he was doomed, but he threw himself on the bed and rolled as he snatched at the belt. The bat-thing zipped by overhead, its raking stinger missing by centimeters. It swung around and made for a dive bomb as Milo rolled off the bed onto the unforgiving floor.

Milo fought to pry the magazine clear of its sleeve as he saw his death descending upon him.

An intervening sack saved his life. Ambrose deftly scooped the sandy construct into an empty sack. The creature launched into wild spasms and stabbed with mandibles and stinger, but swinging the sack like a sling, Ambrose raced back into the common room. The stinger had just punched through the sack in two places when the bodyguard reached the kitchenette and hurled the monster-laden sack into the fire. Before the fiend could spring free, he snatched a large bronze platter and slapped it over the opening of the hearth. There was a strange hiss like a kettle about to boil over, along with fierce scrabbling against the platter.

With a piercing screech like metal being torn, black grit sprayed out around the edges of the platter. Milo felt something shift in the space beyond reality, a previously unnoticed pressure dissipating.

Ambrose still held his ground, even as the sound of his flesh