Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) by Aaron Schneider (classic books for 11 year olds .txt) 📗

his ears, Milo somehow made it to the fireplace without waking Roland. Crouching by the grate, he twisted around and could now see Roland lying stretched out on the divan, his face crushed into the velvet cushion as his back gently rose and fell with his steady breathing. There wouldn’t be a better time than this.

Milo scooped up a handful of the ash from the fireplace, being as careful as he could not to spill a mote of it. It was uncomfortably hot in his hand, and as he drew his arm back, fingers tightening, he discovered there was still a live cinder within. He didn’t dare drop the ash, dousing it instead in the smothering flesh of his hand, but he couldn’t avoid allowing a sharp hiss of pain to escape his lips.

“Milo?” Roland called from his couch, “What are you doing?”

He was caught, but then he spied his trousers at hand. Snatching them up, he slipped the ash-filled hand into his pocket while the other hand stretched them wide. He turned and held them to Roland

“Checking to see if my clothes were dry,” Milo said, fighting with every syllable to keep his voice steady. “Seems they were laundered at some point and then put back here to dry.”

Roland was still stretched out on the divan, but he’d raised himself on his elbows to look at Milo. He blinked once, squinted at the uplifted trousers, then managed a sleepy smile.

“One of the advantages of being the leader of an army.” He chuckled as he rolled his head from one side to the other. “Never a shortage of hands to do the laundry.”

Milo gave a little laugh in reply that sounded nervous in his ears, then rose as he gathered the rest of his clothes.

“I’d like to change back into my uniform,” Milo said, unsure of which part of the whole situation made him uncomfortable. “To maintain discipline if nothing else.”

Roland curled and stretched like some great feline on the couch and then settled into a seated position.

“Go ahead.” He shrugged with a yawn.

Milo stared back as his chin lowered and his eyebrows rose. Roland blinked again, then flushed red.

“Oh!” he said, a sheepish smile forcing its way across his face. “Of course.”

He rose to his feet so sharply that the divan scooted back a few inches, and he turned to scowl at the furniture before look backing at Milo apologetically. When he said nothing, he darkened to a shade Milo might not have thought possible and turned to leave the room.

“Let me know when you’re done,” he called from the door. “We still need to finish that conversation.”

Milo nodded and waited for the door to shut behind Roland before he dared to breathe easily.

Gingerly he drew his hand from his trousers, still careful not to spill any of the precious ash. The blistered flesh of his hand wasn’t pretty, but he’d survive. Flexing his fingers, Milo looked at the dying light of day and wondered if when the time came, he could bring himself to do what was necessary to his former brother. Milo knew he had every reason to hate him, but seeing him again and glimpsing his twisted but sincere motivations, Milo struggled to stoke his rage to its previous level.

Neither of them was who they once were, to the world or to each other, but there was so much history between them, it was almost impossible for Milo to think of it ending.

Then Milo remembered the abomination on the island in the Neva river, and dread sharpened something as dangerous as hate in him. Where anger might no longer burn hot enough, the icy grip of fear might be enough to harden his heart to do the job.

He supposed he wouldn’t know until the moment came, and with a heavy sigh, he set about changing back into his uniform.

The sky was turning purple above them as they rolled down the crumbling streets, entourage in tow.

Roland had explained that sometimes things grew more “interesting” in Petrograd at night when the smaller bandit bands attempted to scavenge or steal supplies. As a result, along with the Rolls Royce, they were accompanied by a truck full of soulless soldiers. Roland had explained as they’d left the gates of the palace that they’d been attempting to clean out the few remaining parasites hanging about the city, but some of them were proving remarkably resilient.

“I suspect once we start using the Resonator to acquire aircraft, we can try an aerial application,” he’d muttered as they began weaving between the sloughing assembly of buildings. “Not an efficient use of hollow gas, but once things begin, we’ll need to guarantee the area is secure.”

Milo looked at Roland, barely able to see him after staring out over the pools of light created by the vehicle’s headlights.

“Aerial application?” he asked, trying and failing to sound interested in only the most academic senses. “Hollow gas?”

“Yes, we never talked about that, did we?” Roland asked. “The Resonator can enslave entire cities, but it is targeted, and even under optimum conditions, it would take at least a day or two. The hollow gas is another creation of Zlydzen’s to accelerate the process.”

Milo knew he wasn’t going to like where this was going, but he nodded along as Roland spoke, hoping to squeeze out every last detail before his escape. He fought the urge to look around to see where Rihyani and Ambrose might be coming from. They would arrive when they would arrive, and until then, he was keeping a hand near his ash-filled pocket.

“Not sure how it works, of course, and I can’t say I like it,” Roland said, shaking his head. “But the basic fact is that the gas kills something in the targets, so even a quick burst of resonance can enslave the meat that’s left. They start breaking down after a time, but that takes weeks, sometimes months, and as it gets colder, they seem to last longer.”

Roland punched Milo in the