Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) by Aaron Schneider (my reading book .txt) 📕

gray-skinned body beneath. In truth, the exposed flesh was nearly identical to what he’d already seen, only a different color and less slimy-looking.

With a start, Milo realized the skin of ghuls was some kind of shell, a skin-tight coating, and what he was now seeing was Imrah’s naked flesh. The revelation sparked what was left of his underdeveloped decorum, and Milo wondered if he should look away.

When Imrah reached inside her skinsuit, he was glad he hadn’t.

There was a clink of glass, then she drew out two vials with wax stoppers, one containing what looked like pale splinters, while the other was a deep bronze color. The vials were small enough they both fit in her hand, but Milo found it hard to believe there was enough room in her snug garment for such items to fit unnoticed. His disbelief was compounded when after looking over what lay in her hand, she palmed the glass containers and fished out another vial full of what looked like ink.

Imrah, her skin suit flapping open, turned to Milo as she shuffled the vials into her other hand.

“Each of these is part of a formula for a regeneration ritual,” she stated, holding them up for Milo to get a good look at. “How much and what combinations, you will learn with time. Initially, you will need to follow strict recipes to avoid...accidents. However, once you understand the basic principles, there will be some variations and improvisations available.”

Milo, realizing he was being taught magic on the fly, nodded to show he was paying attention and not wondering about ghul conceptions of nudity, and more troublingly, sexuality.

“This is not your mortal chemistry,” she said as she gave the vials a shake. “All the reagents in the Underworld will do you no good if they are not commanded to obey, bound by will and intent.”

She raised the vials to her mouth, and with one practiced motion, tore all three wax seals free.

“Necromantic alchemy uses the essence left by once-living things to interact with magically-charged ingredients,” she explained, passing the open vials beneath her nose with a sniff. “It is art and science, as well as conquest. The finest ingredients can be wasted without essence to fuel their transformation, and even with the essence, an unfocused mind will not be able to control their reactions.”

She displayed her teeth in a Ghulish grin.

“For the weak or timid, what should heal could turn to poison in an instant,” she explained, then threw back her head and emptied all three vials into her open mouth.

As Milo watched her shudder, he heard her utter a word in the ghul tongue, and he felt...something. Some internal pressure from Imrah thrumming against his mind. For the briefest of seconds, he experienced, not sensations, but impressions of sensations. A thrill, then yearning, and then pain. It was almost dizzying how quickly one bled into the next, and as he wrestled with them, he lost his sense of time and location for a moment.

As such, when he heard Ambrose’s voice, he woke as though from a deep sleep, struggling to remember where he was and how long he had been there.

“Well, that’s quite the trick and no mistake.”

Milo started and saw that Imrah’s mutilated arm now boasted a skeletal hand that smoked and hissed. Before he could recover from the shock of the new appendage, before his very eyes, the vapors began to contract and congeal into her ash-colored flesh. In the time it took to utter a profane exclamation, Imrah possessed a complete hand.

As if to show off, she raised that newly formed hand to her mouth and licked her thumb with her black, wormy tongue, then drew the flap of her skinsuit back into place. The new moistened thumb pressed the torn corner into place, and there was a soft cracking like flesh over a fire. When she drew her hand away, her black suit was whole, and within a blink of an eye, it had crawled over her regenerated hand.

“This is what lies within your grasp, Magus,” Imrah said as she curled and uncurled her hands in a demonstration.

The door to the Bashlek’s court swung open, and the shrunken attendant thrust his head in.

“Youraudienceisbeingannounced,” it chirped. “Bestgetoutthere.”

Milo had stumbled halfway to the door before claws closed around his arm.

“Take this.”

Milo turned around and felt the skull lamp pressed into his hands.

“You might need it,” Fazihr said, sharing the least reassuring smile Milo had ever seen.

“Welcome, Magus,” Bashlek Marid rasped from his throne. “I trust your introduction to my realm was a tender one.”

Despite sitting high upon a throne on an elevated dais, the ghul monarch’s gravelly whisper carried down so that it felt as though Milo was within arm’s reach of the old predator.

That was exactly what Marid was: a predator.

Years in the Dresden war orphanage had honed Milo’s instincts about such things. Even as a young child, those who survived in such environs learned very quickly to distinguish between predator and prey. This understanding grew very quickly to the realization that these roles were fluid for most, with the average individual acting as predator or prey as events unfolded and they were given or denied opportunity. Anyone could fall upon the broken or be fallen upon, but the true predators and true prey never changed, one always hunting and the other always running scared.

One look at the venerable monster−the tilt of his head, the flex of his claws−told Milo everything he needed to know.

“Yes, thank you, uh, sir.” Milo fumbled. “On behalf of my commander and the, uh, German Empire, I would like to extend my thanks.”

“Your gratitude and that of your people is noted,” the Bashlek replied as he leaned back on his throne, smoothing the crimson mantle and stole he wore. “We are glad to be the first to extend a hand of friendship in your kind’s first steps onto the path of true civilization.”

Voices rustled around the hall, ghuls whispering and scheming in the tiered galleries lining