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

at the Dresden Krieg-Waisenhaus, an orphanage for the war’s cast-offs, had told him his blue-black hair and silver-blue eyes were signs that he was a witchling. Milo, between beatings both given and received, had told them that was hogspit, but now he wondered.

Your momma was a witch, Volkohne.

Shut up!

Your momma danced naked with the Devil, and out you came.

“I understand the Russians hold some very...colorful ideas about the supernatural,” Jorge said before the silence could lengthen, perhaps reading Milo’s forlorn expression. “To be fair, it is not just Russians, but many people, and as this damned war has dragged on, more and more people are looking for something to believe in, even if it frightens them. I suppose that is how I was drawn into all this.”

The confessional tone, more than words, punctured Milo’s suffocating malaise, and he looked at Jorge. The colonel’s gaze was distant, racing down dark, uncomfortable corridors before he felt Milo’s eyes on him. He came back to the present with a self-deprecating nod. Milo didn’t like it, but the look they exchanged was a familiar acknowledgment: men recognizing they were on the same sinking ship. The last time he’d known this moment was with Roland, getting their first tattoos together.

Milo spat into the pail full of sick, then slouched back in his chair.

“So, what’s next, sir?” Milo grunted when his old, pugnacious tone crept into his voice. “You’ve turned me into a witch, and now what? You going to teach me to put a curse on the French? Or maybe the Italians or the English? Is that it, sir?”

The air grew a little cooler as the colonel straightened, but his intonation remained as steady as ever.

“I think you’ve missed something, Conscript Volkohne,” he replied mildly. “As I’ve already explained, I know very little about magic and understand the workings of what I know even less than that. If you are to be of use to anybody, you’ll need to be trained by someone who knows magic.”

“Another witch?” Milo asked, feeling dread fascination despite himself.

“I prefer ‘magus’ or ‘wizard,’ truth be told.” Jorge sniffed, then leaned forward slowly before tenderly plucking up a pierogi. “’Witch’ carries such...baggage, especially among certain circles.”

“Another wizard, then?”

Jorge shook his head as he swallowed.

“There are no other human wizards, Milo. You are the first scientifically recorded case of a human successfully engaging in a magical exercise and not going insane.”

“Successfully engaging” dug at Milo, but he pushed that to the side in pursuit of what seemed like a far larger and more ominous enigma.

“Then who is going to teach me, sir?” he asked, his mouth going dry as half-formed suggestions and insinuations began to bubble toward the surface.

“In official reports to the General Staff, I cite them as non-conforming assets. So far, no one has asked to what these assets do not conform.”

Jorge frowned, considering his words then gave a surrendering shrug.

“As far as you and I are concerned, we’d call them monsters. I am sending you into the dark to learn from monsters.”

After Jorge’s pronouncement about monsters, Jorge had recommended they leave the room before the smell became intolerable. Milo might have been embarrassed had he not been in a state of utter turmoil. In truth, even with the bucket right between his feet, he hadn’t noticed the stink.

Walking with a measured gait that was so slow it was almost painful, the colonel led him out of Room 7 and across the railed gallery to a pair of French doors that opened to a second-story patio.

This side of the building faced away from the command plaza and out toward the park, which had been turned into a muster field. Milo stood watching tiny figures scuttling about in the distance, looking for all the world like ants going about their futile tasks just before the boot descended.

“Have we reached the denial stage of the process?” Jorge asked as he settled into a dusty chair, not seeming to care how it powdered his uniform. “I always find that stage the most tedious, but I suppose it is only natural.”

Milo turned from watching the soldiers and crossed his arms as he considered Jorge.

“You are talking about the unsuccessful, sir? The insane?”

Jorge frowned before replying stiffly, “I was referring to anyone who accepts the new magical reality.”

“I’m all ears, sir,” Milo said, leaning forward a little.

He knew he was taking liberties left and right, and he knew that quietly, patiently, Jorge was acknowledging and dismissing each one, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It seemed only fair, considering Jorge had blithely strolled in to turn his world upside down.

Ten minutes a wizard and already putting on airs. Careful, Milo.

“Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to say I have had to endure the strained transitions of those who came to grips with this new reality,” Jorge answered sagely, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “After I recovered from my shock, it became a matter of who and when in regard to letting others in. But you still haven’t answered the question.”

Milo frowned at the realization that this secret horror was not so secret, then mentally berated himself for the childish reaction.

“I suppose,” he began, trying to pick through the long-toothed and cantankerous thoughts racing around in his head, “that I’m not up for denying it. I mean, I suppose I could rationalize it was all drugs and conditioning and such, but that sort of thinking is at least as uncomfortable as what we’re talking about.”

“Fair point,” Jorge commented as he fished out a cigarette case. The cigarette had barely begun to move in Milo’s direction before he snatched it. They spared a minute to get the tobacco lit and savor the first few drags. Jorge drew over a small table with an ashtray, while Milo flicked the gray leavings over the balcony.

“As you surmised earlier, we’ve had a few others react to the process,” the colonel explained, his eyes sliding toward the occupied park. “The first was an administrative aid working out of a