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

practiced nonchalance. “From the second the rumors spread that I was going to bring a human to Ifreedahm to learn magic. I’ve been using your arrival like a lightning rod to gather all the dissidents under one burning roof.”

“All right, glad to be of service,” Milo growled in his chest. “Now, how about you keep your political schemes to yourself from here on out?”

“I have a better idea.” Marid leaned forward, giving Milo the coldest, nastiest grin he had ever seen. “You take what scraps you are given, little magus, and I’ll make sure all of ghuldom keeps forgetting you’re nothing but talking food.”

Marid maintained the locked gaze, his upper lip twitching a wormy dance that showed his fangs with every spasm. Milo shifted in his seat, unsure if he wanted to be ready to spring up and run or beat the old monster to the pounce.

Before he could decide, Marid slumped back and laughed uproariously.

“Oh, Magus, you are nothing if not interesting,” he croaked between wracking fits of guffawing. “Imrah tells me you have the mind of a scholar, hungry and lusting for knowledge, but I see you also have the heart of a fighter. Now I know why she likes you so much.”

Milo just stared at him, too wary of the mercurial king to acknowledge how shocked he was to hear that Imrah felt anything but loathing toward him.

“Let me open your eyes a little more, my young scrapper,” Marid said, the laughter dying as his voice turned to ice.

Marid snapped his fingers.

Swirling and roiling around the ghul like a spectral storm, Milo saw an entire squadron of incorporeal animates. Some, revealed as they were swimming through the air, were little more than living cobwebs woven into ghostly visages—the Hatif, who were the unseen, unfelt eyes and ears of their master. Others, denser but still without true substance, were knit from shadows and spite and seemed ready to manifest as that black sand. With a word—probably just a thought—Bashlek Marid could summon a dozen Si’lat to descend on any who displeased on him. Circling like sharks scenting blood, the malevolent shades eyed Milo with hollow, hungering eyes.

“Just remember how small you are, Magus.” Marid whispered the warning. “Before you start picking fights you can’t win.”

“Oh, I could’ve throttled the little monster,” Milo snarled as he paced in the common room. “Every step of the way, he’s been dangling and using us!”

Ambrose grunted his acknowledgment from the kitchen, where he watched over a boiling pot of rice. Milo had insisted he was too angry to eat, but the big man had insisted they have something after the excitement of the day.

“And now, after only three days—three days!—he’s sending us off,” Milo continued. “How am I supposed to learn anything if I am being shoved right back into the fighting? Marid’s welching on his agreement with Jorge now that he’s done with me.”

“Even if that might cost him his daughter?” Ambrose called, still stirring the simmering pot. “He did say he was sending her with us.”

Milo paused in his pacing to consider the point but shook his head.

“I think it’s pretty clear there is no love lost between those two.” He shrugged as he returned to stalking back and forth across the common room. “Besides, a creature like Marid wouldn’t care about things like that. Monsters like him never do.”

Milo lapsed into brooding and nearly jumped when a sharp hiss filled the room. He whirled to see rice being drained. Ambrose looked up, his face reddening in the cloud of steam.

“You seem to think you know quite a bit about the Bashlek,” Ambrose noted as he hefted the pot onto the stone countertop and began adding spices, minced vegetables, and diced meat.

“Because Marid is like every other petty despot.” Milo huffed and threw himself down on a couch, which gave a loud creak of protest. “Call them Bashleks or Headmasters or Officers or Gang Bosses or Monsignors, they’re all the same—self-serving predators who have clawed their way to the top of their local garbage heap.”

The flood of memories that came with the description dragged Milo’s hands to his head, and he kneaded at his temples. His fingers worked vigorously, as though they might squeeze away the invasive recollections.

“Well, there’s a bit of baggage that screams for unpacking.” Ambrose chuckled grimly as he scraped what they both hoped were minced leeks into the steaming pot of rice. “So, you want to talk about your problems with authority figures in general or simply hop into exploring your issues with priests?”

Milo looked out from under his hand to fix Ambrose with a scowl.

“Is that slop you call food ready yet?”

Ambrose raised his chin and looked down his crooked nose at Milo.

“I thought you weren’t hungry, O mighty Magus,” he replied archly as he continued folding in ingredients.

“I’m just hoping you’ll have something to shove into your mouth soon.” Milo grunted as he spied the two codices he’d received thus far. He scooped up both and deposited them in his lap.

“It needs to stand for a few minutes,” Ambrose said, leaving the food to cool on the countertop as he ambled over to the couch across from Milo. “Which is just enough time for you to explain how someone who seems passably intelligent is being so very stupid.”

Milo looked up from thumbing through Awakening Moro, brows knitting together.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying,” Ambrose grunted as he settled onto the couch that gave a sympathetic groan, “if you’re smart enough to know all about how types like Marid work, why are you trying to pick a fight with him? What makes you think that is a good idea?”

“He picked the fight with me.” Milo snorted and let the codex flop on the couch. “Sneering about the contessa and rubbing our noses in how this was all part of his plan and he was using us like pawns.”

Ambrose shook his head as he folded his hands over his belly.

“That’s not picking a fight,”