Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) Aaron Schneider (read book TXT) đ
- Author: Aaron Schneider
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At the word âtrust,â Milo couldnât repress a bitter snort.
Trust was growing scarcer.
âWhat?â Ambrose asked, sensing something off in Miloâs manner. âWhatâs wrong?â
Milo gave the big man an unimpressed deadpan stare.
âOh come on, just spit it out already,â Ambrose growled. âAre you a blushing lady Iâve been courting? Just tell me whatâs going on in that magical brain of yours.â
Milo ground his teeth together, shuffling the skull to one hand so he could knead between his eyes with a thumb.
âYou complaining about trust just strikes me as funny,â Milo said in an overly precise manner, his voice icy. âEspecially considering that weâve been working together for weeks, and you didnât mention that you arenât human.â
Ambrose breathed out a long sigh behind Milo and muttered a few exasperated curses.
âTechnically, I am human, or at least part of me is,â the big man reminded him, keeping close to Miloâs shoulder. âIf your mother was Russian and your father wasnât but you lived among Russians all your life, wouldnât you just call yourself Russian? Itâs the same with me. Especially if you know nothing about your father except he isnât Russian.â
âIâm not sure itâs the same,â Milo muttered, but the parallels to his own story robbed some of his indignation. âBut keep talking, and maybe I can find my way to seeing things your way. Whatâs your other half, then?â
Ambrose fell silent, and Milo imagined him chewing his lip beneath his mustache as heâd seen him do before.
âAll right,â Ambrose said softly, his voice low and sullen. âIâll tell you, but you have to remember that I know almost nothing. Iâm a byproduct of this world, this darkling reality, not a guide through it.â
âFine,â Milo said with a nod. âYou donât know much, but you know more than me, and right now, thatâs enough.â
âMy mother was a shepherdess near Toul in France,â Ambrose said, obviously making an effort to keep his tone level and calm. âMy father is OroâzionâNrzim, former Keeper of the Tree, He of the Flaming Sword.â
Milo threw Ambrose a sidelong look meant to convey his confusion, but the big man was walking with his eyes fixed on the ground.
âNot to be rude,â Milo said, drawing Ambroseâs attention, âbut so far, the only part I understand is that you are half-French. That is ironic considering our current allegiance, but not particularly revealing.â
Ambrose chuckled, but it was a shallow, mournful sound.
âMy father is an angel,â Ambrose said, his voice becoming as hard and flat as ice. âA fallen warrior of Heaven who took my mother on May 22nd, 1813. Same day Wagner was born, if you can believe it. I think Napoleon also won one of his great battles around then too.â
Another chuckle, this one even more hollow, passed the big manâs lips.
âBusy time in the world, I suppose.â
Milo gaped at his bodyguard, his pacing slowing so much the ghuls noticed and hissed for them to keep up.
âSo, you are a century-old half-angel,â Milo breathed, the words coming out of his mouth feeling strange, almost wrong. âI suppose if there are things like magic and ghuls that live in the bowels of the earth, why couldnât there be angels?â
Ambrose nodded, the two now walking side by side.
âThe term used in the Bible and other Christian works is âNephilim,ââ he offered. âThough Iâm not sure if that referred just to the ones in Genesis. You know, a specific breed of half-angels, or all half-angels. The ghuls have their own name for us, and obviously, they know enough to be scared.â
Milo looked ahead and saw the ghuls throwing sharp glances over their stooped shoulders. Whether it was fear or hatred or both on their faces was impossible to tell in the gloom, but there was no denying theyâd heard what had been said, and they werenât arguing.
âSo, thereâs a lot of you then?â
Ambrose raised his head and cocked an eyebrow.
âYouâd figure one would be enough, wouldn't you?â he said with a grimace that couldnât quite bring itself to be a smile. âThere are obviously some of us from ancient times, but otherwise, no, there are not many of us. In the century of traveling and warring Iâve put in, Iâve heard about half a dozen others like me and only met two face to face. One seemed like the real thing up to the end, and the other could have been, but somehow he seemed so different I wasnât ever sure.â
It was Miloâs turn to raise an eyebrow.
âIn the end, does that mean what I think it means?â
Ambrose looked ahead, pretending to scrutinize the ghuls.
âSo, youâre the only one left?â
The big man shrugged and gnawed his lip for a moment.
âI suppose I am until the next time some godling decides a mortal is worth going to Hell for.â He gave Milo a sidelong look. âWeâre a rare breed, true enough, but as long as there are pretty women, weâll never go extinct.â
Milo gave a nervous laugh, but it was half-hearted, and not just because of the implications of angels and Hell and therefore Heaven and a God to rule it began to weigh on him. He knew many of the boys at the orphanage had been dogmatically orthodox by dint of their dead parents, while others had been violently atheist, again by dint of their dead parents. Milo, with no memory of his parents, had never picked a side. The truth was that given what heâd seen, when the chips were down, both types were the same. Like any outcast cynic, heâd taken to quietly mocking, but now, walking in the dark with ghuls and something like Simon Ambrose, his flippancy seemed more than a little cavalier.
They both fell silent as they trudged along, the ghulsâ voices ahead so soft they could barely hear them over their own scuffing footfalls on the turfed tunnel floor.
The weight of Miloâs thoughts along
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