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

There was a merciful hiss of flame extinguishing, as the blob was smothered by the mother jelly, but then, with more fury and contempt than anything so amorphous had a right to be, it turned upon Milo and Ambrose.

Rearing back, a pseudopod of slime arched and then flicked a tentacle, hurling gobbets at Ambrose. The big man freed himself from fear’s paralyzing grip and dove out of the way, but one blob splashed across the back of his trouser leg. There was a hiss, and Ambrose gave a snarl of pain as white wisps of vapor rose from the congealing slime.

Ambrose swore and kicked as he ran back toward Milo, flecks of goo flying free, along with bits of his trousers and the flesh beneath.

“Run!” the bodyguard shouted, his booming voice battering Milo back to himself. They ran side by side through the tunnel.

One terrified glance over his shoulder told him the huge, squirming horror was closing on them, and Milo knew there was no way they could outrun it. He felt the heavy cane in his hand, and for an instant, thought of throwing it aside but then the magic hummed against his soul as though begging him to remember.

If the smaller blob had burned…

Milo slowed and then spun around, forcing himself to remember the exercises he’d done with Imrah and the pillars. Only this time, he wanted the torrent of flames instead of bolts.

“BUR—” he began, piling a blunt wedge of essence through the skull, but then he saw an avalanche of slime about to descend and his focus crumbled. Time seemed to slow as he watched the arching wave rushing down on him. Through the quavering layers of muddy flesh, he saw the black shapes, limbs twisting and bodies writhing.

That’s about to be me, Milo realized numbly, just before a vice-like grip clamped over his shoulder and hauled him backward.

His feet leaving the tunnel floor, Milo flew several feet down the tunnel before skidding to a skin-peeling stop on his back. Looking between his outward splayed legs he saw the living tide slam down on Ambrose. Milo tried to scream, but he was winded, and his efforts to climb to his feet were drunkenly clumsy.

In mockery of Milo’s wheezing protests, the wrathful Mother Jelly lifted Ambrose in its smothering grip, twisting hard to the left and then to the right and smashing the big man against the walls of the tunnel. With each impact, there was a wet slap to accompany the bone-crunching thump, treating Ambrose like a slipper in a mutt’s jaws.

Milo was on his unsteady feet, cane thrust out before him like he wanted the skull to bear witness.

Will! he screamed internally. Bend it to your will!

“BURN!”

With a maniacal cackle, the skull’s jagged beak split to unleash a torrent of witchfire.

The emerald flames worked their terrible power instantly, and the slime burst into flames. It recoiled with shocking speed, letting Ambrose’s limp body drop to the floor as it slithered backward. Like burning filth sucked down a drain, the mother jelly retreated up the tunnel, vanishing in less time than it had taken for it to appear. Tendrils of caustic white vapor rose from the walls, and a thin sheen of slime smoldered before shriveling into nothing.

“Simon,” Milo gasped, limping forward in the wake of the horror’s retreat. “Ambrose!”

The big man didn’t respond or move as Milo forced his way through the gagging stink to kneel beside him.

Gently as he could with shaking hands, Milo rolled his bodyguard and friend over, only to fight back a sob as he beheld a face with features chewed down to the bone.

16

A Promise

Simon Ambrose lay on the ground in front of Milo, motionless, unbreathing, dead.

His limp body was pitted and gnawed, ragged holes dotting his flesh where the caustic grip of the gelatinous horror had found greater purchase. Even below the surface, his bones were splintered, forcing his body into odd, unnerving angles on the floor. His clothes were in tatters, hardly enough to cover the expanse of raw meat that glistened in the dark.

The face, though, was the greatest blow to Milo. It rent his heart, yet he was unable to look away. The soft tissue and facial hair were gone except for a few knots that only highlighted the damage. The revealed bone was scarred by the vitriolic touch as well, moldering and pocked by discolored rings. It was a vision of nightmares, but it was all that was left of the only man who might ever have been a true friend to Milo.

“Idiot,” Milo said half-heartedly, wishing he could muster the will for more. “Why did you do that?”

Through the hard, bitter years of his short life, Milo had become proficient at hardening his heart, first in the Waisenhaus in avoiding deprivation and abuse, then in Roland’s gang to achieve status and therefore protection, and finally as a penal conscript, just to stay alive and sane. Experience had educated him extensively on the virtues of emotional distance, objectification, and hate. He’d understood early on that tears meant nothing when no one was there to dry them, so such weakening sympathies were throttled inside him.

Or so he thought.

A string of the curses and imprecations of the dead bodyguard dripped from Milo’s lips.

“Damned fool,” he snarled, hoping anger could bludgeon the grief out. “Stupid, swollen, shuffling…”

His throat ached, and his vision began to blur.

“You-you fat moron,” he began again, forcing the words around the lump in his throat. “Now I’m alone with the monsters. Now...now…”

Something wet and burning slid from his eyes to roll down his cheeks.

“Idiot,” Milo bleated, batting his face before grinding the heel of his palm into his treacherous eyes. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

He told himself he needed to stop blubbering over an empty pile of broken meat. He told himself he needed to report back to the others, who were even now creeping slowly up the tunnel. He even told himself the monstrous thing might