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

“Trouble,” the big man growled in the magus’ ear, then shuffled to make himself as narrow as possible behind the pillar, which was no small task.

A heartbeat later, the doors to the church banged open, and they could hear the scuff of many feet on the stones as the bearded deacon, Saba, bellowed his protest.

“How dare you! This is a house of God!” the deacon bellowed as he came up behind the crowd entering the church. “Leave now!”

“I’m terribly sorry to inconvenience you, Deacon, but we have business with some of your new parishioners,” a familiar voice replied in smooth Georgian. “As soon as we have a brief conversation with them, we will no longer darken your door.”

Hunkered behind the pillar, Milo and Ambrose watched as Percy Astor, now clad in a gray silk suit and matching Homburg, strode by with a cadre of the Georgian mercenaries in dark chokhas. The two men pressed against the pillar as the party strode by and Deacon Saba tried to push his way to the front. Milo allowed himself a petty smile when he saw the stitches on the side of Percy’s face where Milo had struck him with his cane, along with his left hand swaddled in heavy bandages.

He was so enjoying the sight, Ambrose had to haul him farther back behind the pillar, but not before Milo caught a glimpse of the opposite wall. There was a cavity in the wall, a miniature shrine where icons, some in frames, some painted directly onto the stones, were on display. There were places for votive candles, but the light spilling across the space came from a large open window less than two meters off the ground.

The encounter between the unlucky deacon and the American continued as Milo pressed his back against the pillar and took a steadying breath. He checked to make sure the attention of the intruders was upon Saba and saw that the other deacon had arrived, rifle in hand.

“No, Iacob!” Saba cried, trying to step between his fellow churchman and the half-dozen men who raised their weapons in response, a collection of stocky carbines.

“Leave now!” Iacob shouted hoarsely, and to the man’s credit, his hands and voice were both steady.

“Please don’t make this any worse than it has to be,” Percy said with a note of distracted irritation rankling his smooth intonation. “This can be resolved quickly if you would list—”

“This is a house of God!” Saba practically wailed. “Go outside, then we can talk!”

The mercenaries flinched at the outburst. Milo was certain shots were about to be fired, but miraculously, everyone stayed their hand for a moment.

Milo decided they needed to get out of here before the bullets started flying, and there was no better time than now.

“Follow me,” he hissed into Ambrose’s ear, and, knowing it would be pointless to steal another look, darted over to the alcove.

“Leave now,” Iacob repeated, and there was something final in his voice. Milo wasn’t the only one who heard it.

Under the gaze of saints and patriarchs, they scuttled beneath the window as the thunder of six carbines firing filled the church. Both men froze for a second, convinced the shots were meant for them, but when no rounds chewed the stone, and when Saba’s dismayed scream chased the echo of the shots, they understood the truth.

“Why does no one ever listen to me?” Percy muttered, and there was a brief rustle of cloth.

“MURDERERS! TRAITORS! GOD DAMN YOU!” Saba howled, his voice cracking with the impotent fury coursing through him as he collapsed into heavy sobs.

“Hardly language for church,” Percy chided. There was the click of a hammer being cocked, and the bark of a pistol silenced Saba’s weeping. “Though I suppose you might be right on that last point.”

Fury, caustic in Milo’s chest, rose into his throat. He growled a curse, and the raptor skull’s sockets glowed with sympathetic flames. The churchmen were sour old fools, but they didn’t deserve this. Not on their behalf.

Milo was halfway out of the shrine’s alcove when Ambrose grabbed him and dragged him back under the window. Milo tried to pull free, but the Nephilim’s strength and leverage were undeniable as he held Milo long enough to draw his eyes.

“No weapons,” Ambrose mouthed, gesturing with an empty hand. “Too many.”

Milo ground his teeth, swallowing the rage like bitter bile. Ambrose was right; they weren’t going to be any good if they got themselves killed. Silently, he swore that one day, Percy Astor was going to pay.

“Search the place,” Percy called to his mercenaries. “Bring the priest to me for interrogation, but I imagine he will be as useless as those poor deacons.”

Ambrose was already hoisting Milo up to the open window when they heard the tramp of boots.

“Do be quick about it,” Mr. Astor called after his goons. “If my compatriot gets bored, he’s apt to start burning things down, and it would be a shame to deface so picturesque a place.”

Milo swung himself over the window and discovered that the ground outside the church was significantly lower than the floor inside the church. He had enough time to register that in a surge of panic before he struck that ground hard.

Stars detonated inside Milo’s head, and only reflex had him rolling away, thus avoiding Ambrose’s descent. The big man took the fall in stride and had hauled Milo to his feet before he’d managed to force his winded lungs to take another breath.

They were standing on the grassy soil ringing the base of the church, only a few steps away from the paved walkway that wound about the building and connected it to the belltower.

“Belltower,” Ambrose suggested in a low voice as he searched the grounds for mercenaries. “We scamper down the outside and see if we can make a break for the Rollsy.”

Milo nodded, still fighting to breathe consistently, much less speak.

There were no apparent enemies outside, but Milo expected that was because this side of the church