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

first time, Milo Volkohne began to wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to die in the mud.

Milo had been in Room 7 for nearly an hour, which struck him as ironic considering the first thing Lokkemand had said to him was, “We are already late.”

It didn’t surprise Milo, even though it was tiresome.

The truth was that more than the business of being a soldier—no, a conscript, the sergeants had been clear about that—his short time in the Penal Regiment had taught him to wait. Wait and stand in line. Wait inside, wait outside, stand in line in full battle gear, stand in line stark naked. He wasn’t sure he was any better at waiting, but he was now keenly aware of how long he’d been waiting at any given time. He told himself it was a way to ensure he knew how long between meals, but a more honest and spiteful voice acknowledged it was his way of defying his masters. Deep down he wanted a record, an account of all the ways his life was being wasted.

Keeping time also helped him ignore the small, shadowy figure lurking at the corner of the room. Milo was glad that so far the little...thing hadn’t turned around, since that would have made the last fifty-six minutes impossible to stomach.

As it was, when the doorknob of the interview room gave a rattle, Milo made sure to add the time to his tally before bracing himself for what would come next. Out of the corner of his eye, Milo noted the figure shuffle from one foot to another, but thankfully, that was all, even as the door swung open.

Thankful for something else to direct his attention to, Milo watched quizzically as a small trolley, complete with white cover and a silver domed dish, rolled into the room. Within the space of a breath, the delicious smell of seasoned meat filled the room. Milo’s stomach gave a lustful gurgle despite the knots it had been tied in. Of all the things he’d expected to enter this room, a delivery of food was not one of them.

Pushing the trolley was a slight man, slow and stooped, who shuffled in without any introduction. He rolled the trolley past the salivating Milo and up to the rough table before stepping around to brace himself against the table as he let go of the cart. The man seemed unsteady on his feet, his movements those of a person very old or very ill. That seemed strange, considering that while thin, he seemed hale enough.

He took the seat across the table, his back to the figure in the corner, and settled in with a sigh that seemed both grateful and apologetic. He looked at Milo for the first time through round spectacles that sat on a square, bearded face.

For a moment, neither man said anything; both just stared at each other.

“Is he still in here?” the man asked in Russian, his dialect impeccable Moscovian.

Milo balked for a second, unsure of how to respond.

“They haven’t beat all the Russki out of you, have they?” he asked, looking askance across the table.

Milo shook his head.

“Nyet,” Milo answered in his admittedly stilted Russian, fighting the urge to cross his arms. “I still speak it.”

The man’s lips raised at the corners, but something about the expression was not a smile despite the similarity.

“We can speak Deutch if you prefer?” the man offered, fluidly switching to German.

Milo’s eyes narrowed, sensing a test, but the slight sway of the figure in the corner was a relentless drag on his focus.

“Whatever you want,” he muttered quickly in German, trying to keep his eyes from sliding off the man sitting in front of him and toward the corner again.

Again the not-smile tented the corners of the man’s cheeks, and a glimmer of something sharp shone behind his spectacles.

“Whatever you want, sir,” he said a little too crisply for Milo to ignore.

“What?”

“You’ve broken rank three times, Conscript Volkohne,” the man explained, his mild tone belying the growing intensity behind his eyes. “I was just reminding you since you seemed to have forgotten.”

Milo’s stomach sank as he suddenly realized the small, bookish man who moved like an invalid was dressed in a uniform of matte black with an Oberst’s shoulder board, complete with three gold pips marching up its black and white coils.

This man wasn’t just a Blackcoat but a full colonel in the German Federated Army.

The thing in the corner was no longer the only frightening presence in the room.

“M-my apologies, C-colonel,” Milo stammered, rising woodenly to snap a shaky salute. “Won’t happen again, sir.”

The colonel looked Milo up and down, his eyes lingering on the exposed tattoos on Milo’s arms and neck before nodding slowly.

“No,” he mused, his voice icy. “No, I don’t suppose it will.”

The implied threat hung in the air, but the colonel was talking again before Milo could begin to think of how he should respond.

“At ease,” he instructed and waved his hand gracefully at the chair across from him. “Please sit.”

Milo sank down, wincing as the chair creaked in protest.

“You still need to answer the question, Volkohne,” he stated, eyes dark and inscrutable behind the glinting glass lenses. “Is he still in here?”

Milo couldn’t keep his eyes from sliding over to the corner again. The figure had turned its head just enough that a small dirty face could be seen in profile. The eyes were mercifully hidden beneath a ragged fringe of hair, but knowing what lay beneath made Milo’s stomach twitch and curl.

“Sir, I…” Milo’s mouth went dry as he fought to force words around the bile in his throat. “I’m not sure.”

The colonel held up one finger for silence.

“Conscript Volkohne,” he began, his voice intense yet indubitably sincere, “the only answer that can save you in here is the truth, whatever that may be. Starting things off with a lie between us will only make matters...more complicated.”

Milo nodded even as his eyes shifted toward the corner once more, and