Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2), Aaron Schneider [accelerated reader books .txt] 📗

“Slowly,” he cooed, sliding his free hand behind the swollen head to prop the poor creature up a little. “There is plenty, and it’s not going anywhere.”

The wretch choked at one point, and a gush of water and coppery fluid sprayed out of his mouth. He had to be rolled on his side to keep from drowning in his own effluence. The fit passed, and Father Bunin rolled the creature gently back after placing his backpack as a support against the fellow’s spine. Using a clean rag from the bag, he cleaned the wretch’s mouth and gave him more water.

“What are you doing out here, my child?’ the priest asked as he took the waterskin away to give the man a chance to catch his breath. “I’ve not seen you around here before, but being in such a state, I can’t see how you could have come from very far.”

“I came from Georgia,” the wretch said with a gargle in his throat. “I had business there, and now I’m here, waiting for another business partner.”

Father Bunin supposed it was nothing but fevered rambling, but he nodded and dabbed the creature’s mouth with a clean corner of his rag.

“That is a long way to come, especially in your condition,” the priest said before looking out through the scorched door of the flame-scoured building. “Will your friend be along shortly?”

“Should be any minute now.” The poor man sighed, his blackened eyes sinking to half-mast as he leaned against the priest’s bag. “I sent word by one of his cronies when I arrived yesterday.”

Father Bunin, having endured so long in such an inhospitable place, had no illusions left about what kind of henchmen might be lurking around the outskirts of the ruined city. If the man hadn’t killed this poor creature in such a vulnerable state, he only did so because he thought further profit or sport could be had by returning with friends.

“Perhaps,” the priest said, resting a hand softly on the man’s malformed shoulder, “you would like to come with me back to the chapel and wait there? We can leave a note for your business associates. There will be some food there for you while we wait for them.”

The rattling rumble of a diesel engine put to death Father Bunin’s hopes as it growled its way toward them.

“No need,” the wretch observed in a small, unsettling voice. “He’s already here.”

A canvas-backed truck came to a stop before the husk of a house. Father Bunin could make out men’s voices speaking over the engine, then a strapping figure appeared in the doorway.

A deep, velvety voice came from the silhouetted figure at the threshold. “Don’t bother with that one, Father. Jesus didn’t go to the cross for the likes of him, I think.”

“What took you so long?” the wretch snarled with a forceful will Father Bunin wouldn’t have thought possible given his condition.

“I came as soon as I could,” the apparent business associate said as he stepped into the house. “But it took some time to find a vehicle that wasn’t being used. That plan of yours is extensive.”

Emerging from the shadows was a shockingly handsome man with dark, smoldering eyes and tattoos crawling up either side of his neck. One ink-scrawled hand raked through wavy locks of golden brown grown long in the front but shorn to the skin on the sides. Instead of the rugged, homespun attire common to most of those dwelling around Petrograd, this man wore a fine suit like a businessman from a bustling metropolis might wear.

It took Father Bunin a moment, but he recognized the man as a leader of one of the legions of bandit bands plaguing the area. The priest had only seen the man at a distance during one of his scavenging expeditions, but the forces the man commanded, as best as the priest could guess, were more like an army than roving thugs—hard-eyed killers, united by one that even such men could respect.

“What happened to you?” the bandit chief asked with an amused chuckle. “You weren’t pretty before, but this new look is beyond the pale.”

“Shepherd harridan,” the wretch spat. “Her and that pet sorcerer. They didn’t just do this, but they turned the marquis against us, too.”

The chieftain, who’d begun to look at the burnt home with a mildly annoyed expression, perked up at that and turned an approving smile on the disfigured fellow.

“You limped all the way from Tiflis like that? I’m impressed.”

The wretch didn’t seem to appreciate the compliment.

“Just kill this fool and get me back to my workshop. I still have much work to do.”

The bandit frowned as he spared a pitying look for the dumbstruck priest.

“He’s a well-meaning fool. A simpleton with some hand-drawn icons at the edge of the city. Really, there’s no need to kill him.”

For one moment, Father Bunin thought about running, trying to escape. However, given what the man had said he must know about the chapel, Father Bunin’s only chance of escape, assuming they didn’t gun him down immediately, was to flee the area, and he knew he wouldn’t.

Instead, he decided to draw out his simple wooden cross and begin to pray where he was, on his knees.

“Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

“He’s seen too much,” the wretch rasped as he shifted himself against the priest’s pack.

“Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.”

The bandit frowned, cutting an angry glance toward his mutilated partner before staring down at the kneeling priest

“Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses.”

“Get it over with!” the wretch snarled, air whistling through his absent nose.

There was a metallic click, and Father Bunin looked up into the black eye of a pistol barrel. He forced himself to look past that abyss over the wrist sporting a skull and orthodox cross into the dark gaze of the young man holding the weapon.

“As we forgive those who trespass against u—”

The pistol