Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) Aaron Schneider (top 10 most read books in the world .txt) 📖

hold them there. The east wing seemed more or less intact, but gaping windows, doors, and huge holes marred the structure like tunnels bored by beetles and worms through a corpse. In the washed-out pre-dawn light, everything seemed the sad gray or flat black of death and rot.

Roland’s operation was headquartered in the corpse of Russia’s old aristocracy. Somehow the irony of that reality was bitterly funny to Milo, and as the soulless moved to unload him, he was laughing quietly to himself.

They kept his hands shackled, but they separated the cuffs from the truck bed, then they hauled him down onto the ground. He was still wearing a smile as he was dragged to the central hall, where he could see Roland standing in front of the huge black doors. They swung open and more men emerged, though these wore the khaki uniforms of the Reds and had no gas masks. On their belts were pistols and what looked like wooden truncheons studded with metal knobs.

“Take him to my suite and see that he is given clean clothes and hot water to wash with,” Roland instructed without looking at Milo. “I will deal with him after I meet with the dwarf.”

Without a backward glance, Roland swept inside, leaving Milo to the care of men he knew were as soulless as the creatures in the masks. Without a word, they grasped him with rough hands and dragged him inside, the great doors booming shut behind him.

Milo at first told himself he was not going avail himself of any part of Roland’s hospitality, but no sooner had a basin of hot water appeared than he shed his clothes and began to wash.

The fight in the marsh with Tsar’Vodyanoy had chilled him to the bone, and he had mud and filth crusted in the most unlikely of places. Despite himself, a groan of pleasure from deep in his belly escaped his lips as he slipped into the basin. It was not large enough to do anything more than squat in it, but he savored the nearly scalding water sliding over his weary and begrimed flesh. Scooping up handfuls, he ladled the water over his shoulders, neck, and head, deep sighs humming through his chest.

For one moment he forgot about the danger, about the magically hollowed creatures standing guard over him with pistols and bludgeons, and about the fact that he was squatting naked in what amounted to Roland’s bedroom.

For one moment he was enjoying a bath, savoring the feeling of shedding the filth and fatigue of violence.

The blissful amnesia lasted only a few seconds since the hot water could not stave off the chill of reality.

With one more shuddering sigh, Milo eyed his guards.

The soulless men in the Soviet khakis didn’t seem to be paying him any heed, but Milo knew that could change with one wrong move from him or one word from those holding their chain. One on one, Milo thought he might have a chance even without magic, given the training Ambrose had afforded him, but there were four men standing guard over him, and he was willing to bet there were many more within easy shouting distance.

With all his magic available to him, he might have been able to fight his way out, but they’d taken the cane, the satchel, and even his greatcoat. The means to work necromistry were momentarily lost to him, and Milo didn’t know if the Art could find any purchase in the soulless. The specters had worked on Stalin’s men, but these soldiers seemed even more empty than the ones in Georgia. He didn’t want to make a move and discover he was wrong; that could be fatal, and testing the Art would be difficult, given the one-sided way they seemed to respond to stimuli. He might not know the Art was not working until he did something to provoke them to violence, and by then, it would be too late.

No, his best option was to wait, though that didn’t mean staying in the cooling water basin the whole time. Having Roland come in to see him naked and shivering was a humiliation he’d rather not endure, especially after he’d felt so empowered while staring at his erstwhile protector turned warlord earlier.

As quickly and effectively as he could, he clawed and rubbed the remaining filth off and emerged from the basin. They’d laid towels, cold but plush and clean, upon a velvet divan. Milo scuttled over and began to dry himself, looking around the room as he did so.

It was a spacious apartment with a bed at the far wall next to a large window and several pieces of furniture for reclining arranged closer to the door to the hallway. A good-sized fireplace bore a fire where a few logs crackled, but the heat wasn’t nearly as much as was needed to drive out the early-morning chill or provide strong illumination in the room. The lamps in the room were dark, but the dawn had begun to fill the room with light.

In that scarlet light, Milo assessed the space.

Despite the barbaric finery of the large, ornate, and expensive-looking furnishings, it was clear the room had not originally been a bedroom but a study or drawing-room. It had built-in shelves stretching across two walls and a large desk set into the corner where they met. Other than the books being absent, there was no sign that this room had endured the violence that had swept the rest of the palace.

Given what Milo had seen from the outside, it was probably the rarity of this room’s unmarred state that made it Roland’s suite.

His body dry, Milo saw there were a shirt and some trousers at the other end of the divan. Throwing the towels back where they’d been, he dressed, keeping an eye on the door. He expected Roland to come in at any moment, thwarting his plans to avoid embarrassment at the last second.

Roland didn’t emerge, and so it was that Milo