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

something sparked in him, and his limbs responded with the shuddering speed of a dream. He knocked their hands away and, grabbing one by the neck, hauled himself up to his knees. His voice roared in that dark emptiness, battering the specters into motes of unlight.

“учи учёного!”

That was when he awoke, truly awoke, and found himself naked and kneeling in his bed. The springtime sunshine filled the room, and in that fair light, he saw Ambrose staring at him, wide-eyed, from a chair at the foot of the bed.

“What was that?” the bodyguard asked, wiggling a thick finger in his ear. “Not sure I caught it.”

Milo had collapsed back onto the bed, drawing the sheets across his bare form, but for the first time in a long time, he did not immediately slip back into sleep. He’d lain there for some time, wondering at how loose his skin felt on his bones before he realized that he was desperately hungry and thirsty.

Before he could finish forming a request, which was harder than he would have imagined with his neglected vocal cords, Ambrose produced a beaten copper mug full of warm, creamy broth. As Milo greedily slurped it down, the big man filled him in on the events of the last two weeks, which mostly included Ambrose keeping Lokkemand from Milo and Lokkemand keeping the locals from Shatili.

“Had a whole witch-hunting mob trudge right up the Argun,” Ambrose said, a bemused smile spreading across his face. “Farmers and foresters all coming to lay their claim against the night witch, meaning you, for everything from animals miscarrying to marital disputes. I might’ve been tempted to see if their nerve lasted past a few warning salvos, but I’ll hand it to Lokkemand; he knew exactly what to do.”

Money, it turned out, was an incredible curative for all things witch-related. Lokkemand’s attempt to buy off the disgruntled locals seemed to have worked a miracle.

“And after that, he stopped trying to get you up and about,” the big man explained, chuckling. “I think if nothing else, he wanted to buy himself a little more time to gather funds from Command before you woke up and start making your rounds again.”

More funds had come four days ago, along with an interesting announcement.

“Jorge’s coming,” Ambrose said simply, studying Milo. “Seems he wants to have another sit-down with you. Of course, we thought he was coming to talk to sleeping beauty, but the message he sent didn’t leave room for conversation on his arrival date.”

Milo stood in front of the mirror a day later, still a little unsteady on his feet, but determined to make himself presentable before the colonel arrived.

Aside from the effects of the nightwatch fading, the time off had not done much to improve his looks. His eyes were dark and contracted over his grotesquely sharp cheekbones, all riding over a collection of black facial hair made of wild wire and juvenile fuzz. As Milo reached over to start washing his face, he noted how shriveled his hands looked.

“Vulture claws,” Milo muttered as his dark-veined, long-nailed hands took soap and towel in hand.

“You strike me as more of a crow,” Ambrose commented from the doorway.

“No one asked,” Milo croaked with more venom than he felt.

Ambrose shrugged and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Milo had tried to dismiss his bodyguard more than once, but the indefatigable Nephilim would not be deterred. He knew the big man’s supervision was more out of concern than anything else, but every time he saw Ambrose, it reminded him of how bad things had gotten. Milo hadn’t only let himself go in trying to prove himself, but he’d also let Ambrose down.

The fact that this was the first time he cared about this since Roland’s band only made the sting strike deeper.

“So, why is Jorge coming?” Milo asked as he plunged the towel into the warm water. “Did the message say anything about that?”

Ambrose shook his head, his eyes fixed on the dust motes dancing in a shaft of light from a hallway window.

“No, or at least Lokkemand didn’t tell me,” the big man said, then a lopsided grin spread across his features. “Not that he and I have chatted much.”

Milo took a moment to digest the response as he washed his face. It felt like stripping off a mask, clearing away the residue of so many days of unconsciousness. When he looked up from the mirror, his flushed skin made the dark veins in his temples and forehead stand out more, but somehow, he seemed more human.

“You mentioned before that you and he exchanged words,” he said as he gathered the shaving lather and brush Ambrose had brought him. “Anything I should know?”

Ambrose let out a long, lilting curse that turned into a whistle.

“He might try to tell you that I was rude to him,” the bodyguard explained matter-of-factly. “Which simply isn’t true.”

Milo paused the lather brush centimeters from his bristly face.

“And?” Milo prompted with a cocked eyebrow.

“And he might also say I told him if he came into your room again, I’d peel him like an apple,” Ambrose said before muttering quickly. “Which is the truth.”

Milo snorted and began to apply the lather.

“You do know that he outranks both of us,” Milo said as he turned back to the mirror. “And the one thing any army loves more than victory is the hierarchy.”

“As I’ve said before,” Ambrose declared, raising a finger to emphasize the point, “I’m not a soldier in the German Army. I am an unwilling—”

“—Conscript forced to serve under duress,” Milo finished for him, rolling his eyes as he put down the lather brush and picked up the razor. “I know, you might have made mention of the fact before.”

“Once or twice.” Ambrose chuckled. “You sure you know how to use that thing?”

Milo, his scraggly face covered in lather, looked down at the folded straight razor and then back at the mirror to see Ambrose watching him. Without bothering to look back down, Milo flicked it open,