Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame

by E. C. Farrell

  Hank would suggest therapy, but this is so much less expensive.

  An hour or so later, drenched with sweat and puffing, I wash off the layers of stink, imagining my baggage swirling down the drain. My stomach growls as I wriggle into a set of fresh clothes and sink face first onto the couch.

  With a groan, I dig around in the drawer of my secondhand coffee table. Push pins scatter under my fingers, playing cards slide beneath them, something gummy sticks to my skin, but finally I snag a bag of jerky. Dropping it on the floor, I wheedle it open with my nails and pull out a stick to munch on.

  At least tonight I can just crash here fully clothed. If I hadn’t died on the job, around midnight I would burst into flames, scorching anything I’m standing or lying on. Those nights I usually sleep naked in the shower. No point in setting fire to my furniture. Even if it is second hand.

  Grumbling, I twist around into a seated position, and pull one of the many large books I’ve been studying out from under my stack of trashy romance novels. After three years of searching for a way to break my stupid curse, I’m not super optimistic about finding much, but anything I can learn might help.

  I fade out after cramming a few more sticks of dried meat into my mouth and making it through half a paragraph on ancient spells, but a loud banging shocks me back to consciousness mid-dream. Flipping sideways off the couch, I sprint to the door.

  “Open up,” Yaritza says in a hiss before I can even squint through the peephole.

  Unflipping the locks and dispelling my shield, I let her and her bounty in along with a heavy wave of humidity, and the sound of shouting from down below. I slam the door shut as something shakes the entire building.

  With a wave of my hand, I mutter my shield spell, then turn back to Yaritza. “Amazons?”

  “Amazons.” She paces behind my couch, her bounty standing at its end, sweat dotting his warm brown skin. “I knew confusing their scrying would only last so long. It’s an uphill battle against magic users of their caliber.”

  I tap my hip bones with the pads of my fingers, mind racing. The walls shake again. A decision dangles in the back of my mind. Earlier, Yaritza said the buyer wasn’t someone you said no to. This means power and influence. The kind strong enough to make risking the ire of the Amazons worth it.

  Possibly the kind who could help me break this stupid curse.

  My brain locks onto that decision. “Transfer the mark to me.”

  Suspicion narrows Yaritza’s eyes. “What?”

  “They’ll have a harder time scrying on, or tracking me,” I say. “I’ll take the mark and once you get away from the Amazons you can come meet us in a safety zone. Breaux Bridge, maybe. We’ll take a Greyhound. That might throw them off a bit too.”

  Yaritza crosses her arms. The building shakes a third time. Magic crackles the air as tension cramps my jaw. No longer smiling, the bounty grips the couch to keep his balance, eyeing my ceiling with his lips pursed together.

  Taking a very slow breath, I turn over the trump card in my head. Rushing her won’t end well. But we’re definitely running out of time if Amazon warriors are downstairs. If I wait too long, they’ll come busting in with enough power to tear open a portal to the fae realm.

  Finally, I play the hand I know she can’t ignore or argue. “Anything to protect the contract.”

  It’s like pulling the trigger on a gun. Baring her teeth, Yaritza grabs my arm with a sharp nod. “His name is Max Avila.”

  I mumble the connection spell, inserting the bounty’s name at the end. Warmth flushes my skin as our tattoos light up along with the leather wrist band. When it fades, that magnetic, magical tug ties me to the mark, binding our fates together.

  Sliding her fingers over an elbow, Yaritza nods again, then strides to the door. “I’ll lead them away. Meet me in Breaux Bridge in three days. And Fee,” she fixes me with those cloudy gray eyes, “he’s a water spirit, so do not let him talk.”

  With this final warning, she bursts back out into the hall, leaving me and her bounty behind.

  2.

  I GRAB THE MARK BY the collar and drag him toward the window at the back of my apartment. “I hope you don’t have a problem with heights,” I say as we climb out onto the fire escape.

  Gesturing to his mouth, the mark shrugs, and I roll my eyes skyward.

  “Okay look, I’d rather us not go on the lamb in awkward silence or attempt to communicate through some deranged game of charades, so you can talk as long as you don’t use any of those water spirit powers on me,” I say. “And as long as you don’t squawk.”

  The mark chuckles as my wrist tattoo warms with the magic of my command. “Thanks, mama. And to answer your question, that depends entirely on whether or not I’m getting thrown off of said height. Because I don’t like that journey for me.” An accent not typically found in New Orleans spices his words, orchestrating in a sharp musicality similar to Spanish.

  Not looking down, I lead him up to the roof, laughing in spite of myself. “That’s for the person who put the bounty on your head to decide. Which means until I get you to them, I’m highly motivated to keep you alive. Though I can make things unpleasant if you annoy me too much.”

  As we clear the half cement wall, the building quivers again, and magic electrifies the air.

  We both stumble. The mark loses his balance completely. I grab his shirt to keep him steady, glaring down into the alleyway at the witch below. So much for them not having my vibrations to scry on. Even when we get away, she’ll be able to gather some from the rooftop. We’ll have to move fast so we don’t leave much behind.

  Readjusting my grip on the mark, I click my tongue. “Fair warning, this is going to be a little jarring.”

  A wave of intense fire rips through me as my body morphs into phoenix form. The bounty lets out a funny little shout as blue-tipped wings sprout from my back, my clothes transform into burning feathers, and my arms hook into talons. Latching onto the mark’s shoulders, I streak into the sky, fast as a shooting star and as easily mistaken for one.

  I land us in a nearby alley seconds later, taking a few running steps to steady myself after setting the mark down, and shaking from the effort of carrying someone. While in that form, I’m much more powerful but most assuredly not stronger. It’s colossally unfair.

  The bounty stumbles into one of the brick walls, gasping, looking around wildly as confusion fully annihilates the arrogant smile on his pretty face. “What...” He points at the sky. “We ...” He points at me. “We ... you can fly?”

  I slide out a pack of cigarettes and light one up. “When the situation demands it. Transporting a passenger means I can’t go very far, though, so don’t expect that kind of service often. We’ll be walking most of the way.”

  Clocking the rooftop we left behind, I study the building a moment before dismissing it, then march back onto Bourbon Street. The bounty jogs to keep up when the cuff’s magic tugs at him. We dodge a pair of sloppy drunk women flashing other people for beads. Young or old, in the presence of cops or nuns, it doesn’t particularly matter around here. So long as you stick within the well-understood boundaries, this kind of behavior is completely acceptable.

  It would offend my parents’ delicate nerves.

  “And where are we going exactly?” the kid asks, raising his voice above the din and weaving around a small pile of discarded beer cans.

  I take a slow drag off my cigarette. “Tonight? A second safe house just outside of Bourbon Street. There’s no reason to try and make it out of the city this late.”

  I cross the street to avoid passing too close to a voodoo shop. Of all the magic innate to this realm, that heavy, oppressive brand of hexes and curses scares me the most. I’ve had enough of that to last an eternity, which I might very well have if I can’t break the spell locking me in this never-ending cycle. Besides, those shrunken heads ruin my appetite.

  Every few blocks, I glance over my shoulder, feel out the magic in the air. With the odd collision o
f Catholicism and pagan practices, New Orleans boils with intense spiritual ripples unlike anything I ever encountered in the fae realm. The two forces intermingle in such a way to fully confound my senses. Not to mention what they often do to technology.

  I ignore them if at all possible.

  Heat and humidity stick my t-shirt to my back as we pass St. Louis Cathedral, a massive white building I eye with as much suspicion as I do the voodoo shops. A different kind of power — I can’t rightly call it magic — beams out from its walls. Spotlight bright, and just as exposing, I keep to the shadows whenever I’m forced to take this route.

  The mark mumbles something under his breath that almost sounds like the prayers I hear Hank whisper sometimes. Its familiar rhythm soothes my nerves. As I take the next corner, I flick ash off my cigarette, and hook a thumb into one loop of my bag.

  “Religious type?” I ask.

  It’s foolish to get to know too much about a bounty, but if we’re going to be stuck together for a few days, I’d rather have a little conversation than stilted silence.

  “My friend Ash is,” the mark says. “I figure if a guy like him trusts it, then it’s got to be at least a little trustworthy. Who better to go to for help than a god?”

  Kicking the ground with the heels of my shoes, I glance back at the church, steeling my muscles against a shiver of discomfort. It’s a nice thought. If, and only if, such a deity is just and good. In my experience, unlimited power usually rots beings — magic and non-magic alike —from the inside.

  “What about you?” the mark asks. “Any faith to speak of?”

  “I have faith in one thing,” I say. “And that’s sticking to the contract.”

  I pause at a wrought iron fence blocking off an alleyway, stomping out my cigarette and fishing a key out of my pocket. To the unknowing eye, this plot looks like a graveyard completely with above ground tombs, their stone carved with intricate designs. On the other side of the charm, however, I know we’ll find a cozy little house Yaritza and other hunters keep stocked for emergency situations.

  Murmuring a spell, I uncover the lock in the center of the black gate. Some paranormals rely only on their magic to seal off entrances to secret places. I prefer multiple barriers to protect the things I don’t want others finding, as does the rest of my guild.

  “Am I about to get the ‘I’m innocent and shouldn’t have a bounty on my head,’ speech?” I ask the mark, jingling my keys lightly.

  Hands in the pockets of his jeans, he looks at me out of the corner of his eyes with a slight smile. “You wouldn’t buy it even if I did, mama. I prefer to save my breath for tactics that might actually work. Play it smart.” He wiggles his brows.

  I laugh and lead him into the grassy yard of the safehouse, waving a hand to seal our way in once more. “Very wise. I’ve heard all the speeches and have been moved by none. Whether you deserve all this or not is none of my business. I’m just doing my job.”

  Pure silver moonlight bleaches the matted grass under our feet, illuminates the cement steps and teal painted safehouse door. Another turn of the key and a second mumbled spell later and we slip inside. The bulbs overhead blink on with our movement. Nicer than my own studio apartment, and much quieter, the furniture here might as well still have price tags and plastic coverings.

  “Man, Yaritza’s been holding out on me.” I trot to the small kitchen, pulling open cabinets, the pantry, and the fridge, fist bumping the air when I discover shelves stocked full of food.

  Grabbing a bag of spicy pork skins and a bottle of tequila, I turn back to the mark. He lounges on the brown suede couch, one ankle resting on his knee, that arrogant smile settling back into place. Dark circles under his eyes stand in sharp contrast to this expression. Black tinges the veins in his arms, and even my professionalism can’t quite silence my empathy.

  Yaritza isn’t known for being kind to her marks.

  “Hungry?” I ask, twisting off the tequila cap and taking a slow sip.

  “Thirsty. You’re looking at a pretty dehydrated water spirit.” He sweeps a hand down his form and for the first time I notice the cracks at the corners of his mouth, the patches of dry skin on his arms. “Not to complain, but if I pass out, you’re looking at having to literally carry me around, and I don’t think either of us wants that.”

  “Definitely not.”

  Tucking the tequila under an arm, I snag a water bottle out of the fridge, and toss it to him. No point in letting the guy get totally dried out. Hopping into the matching armchair, I tear open the bag of pork skins, and watch him chug without coming up for air.

  At the bottom of the bottle, he lets out a heavy sigh. “Much better. Thanks, mama.”

  I chomp on a pork rind, then cock my head to one side, studying his face. “Let’s get it out of the way. What is the sob story? Why should I let you go?”

  The various tales my marks have told over the last three years always entertain me. From insane conspiracies to bribes, they all have a reason for why they’re innocent, or should be forgiven. Not one has ever swayed me. As I said before, no one is innocent, at least not purely speaking, and even if they are, it’s not my business.

  Then again, if a group of Amazons cares what happens to him, things are definitely more complicated. A small tinge of fear climbs up my spine at the distinct possibility that this situation might be different than any I’ve encountered before. That this mark might actually be innocent.

  I numb the terror with another mouthful of tequila.

  Tapping the bottom of the water bottle against his knee, the mark points at me, flashing a pearly white grin. “Good karma.”

  “I should let you go so I can get good karma?” I chuckle. “Honey, I’m a phoenix cursed to die every day, and I’ve been working as a bounty hunter for three years. Not sure a tiny dose of good karma will do me much good at this point.”

  “Every little bit counts.” The mark’s grin spreads into a full-on smile. “If not for your own account, maybe future offspring. Your children will thank you.” He wiggles his brows suggestively.

  With a slight huff, I stuff another pork rind into my mouth, chewing thoughtfully as we stare each other down. Knowing the way of most water spirits, it’s possible this kid seduced someone and fed off their energy to enhance his power. Did he kill them? Am I sitting across from a murderer? This wouldn’t be new for me, and I have a twin skeleton hanging in my wardrobe, but the thought is still discomforting.

  The mark folds his arms over his chest. “How’d you end up cursed?”

  I tilt the tequila back, letting the liquid burn down my throat before I respond. “My dad broke a contract with a rather vindictive witch. She decided to get her revenge on him by cursing me. Joke was on her though, because he doesn’t really care.”

  Face pinched, the mark picks at thread on his shirt. “Ouch.”

  “Yep.” I pull out a cigarette and spin it between my fingers. “I could pitch my story to a producer on that TV network with all those teen shows and probably make a fortune.”

  The mark’s face smooths out with a grin. “I’ll battle you for it. My family drama’s pretty wicked too.”

  “I’m not sure you can beat getting cursed for your crooked fae father.” I rock forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “Hit me.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to hear my sob story.”

  Sucking the seasoning off the end of my thumb, I glower, then hop out of the armchair. “Get some sleep. We’re leaving early. Take any bedroom except the one I’m about to crash in. If you show up in there using the pipes or your water spirit magic, I’ll let you dry out.”

  “Wait.”

  I wrinkle my nose and turn, expecting a quivering lower lip, or puppy-dog eyes. Instead, I again find a very sincere grin. “What?”

  The mark rubs his jaw. “What do I call you?”

  This phraseology interrupts my thought train. He didn’t ask my name, but what I’m called, almost as if he knows, somehow understands. I crack ever
y knuckle on both hands, take an extended, burning swig of tequila, then shake my head. “Fee. You can call me Fee.”

  “I’m sorry about your curse, Fee,” he says. “I mean sure, respawning is great, but at what cost?”

  A harsh response snarls at the back of my throat but dies before it can get out into the open. I douse the angry fire with another mouthful of alcohol, then grace him with a grin of my own. “No need to be sorry. What better fate for a bounty hunter than one where dying isn’t permanent?”

  Swirling my bottle, I turn on a heel, and march to the bedroom at the far end of the safe house, shutting him out before he can say anything else to stoke my cinders.

  HIGH PITCHED LAUGHTER reverberates in my ears. Cruel words slither through my mind as a dark spell seeps into my body, thick and slow moving like black ichor. It coils around me, burning my skin, my veins, my bones, wrenching me from sleep as flame bursts from my chest. I emerge from the ashes of my bed a few moments later, staring in shock as fire blazes across the bedroom of my parents’ home ...

  I sit bolt upright as the world tilts from night to morning, gasping and drenched in sweat. Gasping, I hug my knees, fully disoriented. Each breath merely scrapes the top of my panic-stricken lungs. I curl further into a ball to stop myself from swaying. As the fog from sleep thins out, I slowly take in my surroundings and remember where I am.

  With a gulp, I concentrate on relaxing my muscles. The dream — a memory of the night that witch cursed me — rolls around in my head. Bit by bit they unwind. Bit by bit my mind settles, focuses. No matter how I try, I can never remember the specific words, only the cold dread as she spoke the spell into existence and cemented my strange fate.

  I mumble curses against her, against my father whose faithlessness I’m paying for.

  Body humming, I jump off the silk-sheeted bed to pace, snapping my fingers and sending out small sparks of phoenix flame. They flutter downward, dying out before they burn the thick, brown carpet. Something about this helps release the nervous energy.