Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame

by E. C. Farrell

  Even with this statement, Max fills the sink with water to soak the dishes. He doesn’t, however, waste any more time after that, rubbing his hands on his jeans and offering me that cocky smirk.

  “Take me to my fate.”

  Ignoring the unexpected swoop of guilt right behind my ribcage, I grab my bag and keys, then lead Max out of the safe house. Stars salt the sky around a slice of half moon, spreading its silvery light across the small lawn. When a quick glance up and down the street confirms it’s empty, I unlock and unspell the gate, then lead the way toward the Greyhound bus station.

  Moisture heavy wind twists around us. It nudges trash and leaves along the cracked concrete, and pushes away some of the stink of sewage, the stench so much worse after the scent of Max’s cooking. It finally thins out completely as we approach N. Rampart St.

  Urine replaces it, mingling with cigarette smoke.

  Tingles dance up the back of my neck as my nose twitches. I duck seconds before my brain registers the smell of mint and cigar ash, yanking Max down with me. Magic crackles through the air over our heads. Laughter follows. I swivel to face a man in plaid and wearing sunglasses in spite of the darkness.

  Isaiah freaking Camp. Just what I need right now.

  Grinning, he steps out of the shadows cast by the streetlamps, half dimples carving lines in either cheek. “Nice reflexes little phoenix. You’re gonna need ‘em if you want to keep that bounty on you.” He swipes a hand through the air.

  Still clenching Max’s arm, I scramble out of the way. Magic scrapes past my calf. Warm liquid spreads across my pant leg, and I growl in the back of my throat. “Why are you after him, Camp? Rep or reward?”

  “Bit of both.”

  I throw up a shield spell against his next attack. My shoes scrape across the cement as it pushes us backward, the force of the impact rumbling along my arms. Sweat rolls down my spine, and mats strands of hair to my forehead. Camp’s fourth spell sends cracks of neon light along the sphere of invisible protection I have wrapped around us.

  “Who is this guy?” Max asks.

  “A rival bounty hunter,” I say through my teeth, voice shaking with effort. “And an extremely powerful magic user. Trust me, you do not want to end up in his hands. He’s about as pleasant as Yaritza. Only ten times dumber.”

  “Got it.” Twisting an arm around, Max grabs my wrist.

  Cold crashes over me in a rush, cutting off my gasp, my sense of sound. My vision ripples as if I’ve been dragged under water. The street blurs past me. Camp’s form shrinks. Then we slam back into solid ground. Gasping for air, I stumble, kept upright by Max’s grip.

  “That was...” I shake my head hard.

  “I doubt as wild of a ride as when you went full phoenix on me.” Max grins, his hand still on my arm, my skin warming under his touch. “Good thing that cuff thing doesn’t block my magic, huh?”

  I extract myself from his grip. “It can if I tell it to. But seeing as how you just helped...”

  One of Camp’s spells crackles the air, and Max and I sprint for the bus station at the end of the block. We barrel onto the platform. Mere feet from the windows, the other bounty hunter jumps into our path. With a heavy shove, he sends me flying back into the street, seconds before a bus slams into me.

  4.

  I BURST BACK INTO EXISTENCE with a furious snarl, so angry I don’t even care about the trio of humans who just witnessed my death and naked resurrection. Morphing into phoenix form, I soar over the bus, and descend on Camp in a flurry of fire. The other bounty hunter flails as I claw at his face with my burning talons.

  His stupid sunglasses skitter across the platform. Blood sprays through the air, rolling down his face. Squawking, I peck at any vulnerable bit of flesh I can find. He waves his arms, and the space around us ripples with power, building in strength until it rams into me. Sharp pain slices through every muscle. My phoenix form slips. I crash to the ground, human again.

  Bloodied and burned, Camp creates a ball of electric energy between his hands. “Sorry little bird. It’s a race now with a real big reward at the finish line. Nothing personal. Just business.”

  A stream of frozen water slams into Camp, throwing him into a wall so hard the entire platform shakes. With a sickening crack, his skull smacks the brick, and he slumps to the ground. I stare, frozen in place until his eyes roll to the back of his head, and he lays totally still.

  “You okay?”

  Gasping, I look up at Max. He stands about a foot away, chest heaving, hands on his knees. My brain refuses to accept the reality that he’s now saved me twice. Though he knows I’ll come back, he could have preserved his energy. Let Camp and me battle it out. Instead, he stepped in and fought.

  It makes no sense unless it’s another manipulation.

  I force my brain back into professional mode. “I mean, aside from being totally naked and down a bag of supplies, I’m doing okay. You?”

  Max chuckles and pulls off his shirt. In spite of what he said before, it’s really not too shabby of a sight. Though definitely not ripped, he’s got a little definition under that smooth, brown skin. I take the offered piece of clothing, glad to have anything to cover up with, then let him help me to my feet.

  “I’d give you my pants, but I’m wearing a thong.”

  He winks and I’m so taken off guard, I spit a little as laughter busts past my lips. “Careful. I might make you prove it.” Chuckling again, I rub my temples and look around.

  Thankfully, the bus that hit me didn’t stop, and of the three people sitting on the platform, two are very much drunk — heads cocked at funny angles in sleep — and one just blinks at us. The skin bunches between her thinning brows in confusion. I tug at the bottom of Max’s shirt. He’s a bit shorter than I am, but thank the Fates, longer waisted.

  At bare minimum, it more or less covers what it needs to cover.

  “Practicing for Mardi Gras?” she asks, with an accent straight out of South Louisiana.

  “Yes,” I say quickly. “Big performance. Any feedback?”

  “I wouldn’t go with the naked thing at the end,” the woman says. “Overdone. Got enough lady flashers as it is.”

  I cover my mouth, and Max sways back with a laugh. “You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, huh?” he says.

  “You know that’s right.” Abrupt as anything, she looks down at her cell phone, going right back to ignoring us.

  Gotta love Bourbon Street. It’s one of the best places to hide paranormal activity. Most folks are so used to the weird they don’t question magic. Which is a very good thing, because memory wiping spells are not my forte.

  Max turns that grin on me. “What’s the plan, mama? Can you magic up some clothes, and money, or are we going to have to panhandle for it?”

  “Son of a yeth,” I curse, rubbing my temples with a groan. “Unfortunately, my magic isn’t quite powerful enough to create things out of nothing.”

  Now what? Without my bag, I have no extra clothes, no phone, and no money. I glance at the woman. Maybe I could call Hank. With that guy’s hero complex, he never even puts his cell on Do Not Disturb. He’ll definitely answer. Even if the call comes from a stranger’s number.

  Attempting a presentable smile, I sidle up to the woman who’d made commentary on our “Mardi Gras” performance. “Excuse me, could I borrow your cell?”

  Lips pursed out in a funny little pout, she rolls her eyes slowly up to me. “You don’t have a phone?”

  “It, uh, doesn’t work so well with our routine.” I widen my smile, glancing at Camp out of the corner of my eye, relieved to find him still there and unmoving.

  “How do I know you’re not just going to run off with it?” she asks.

  Fingers brushing my arm, Max leans forward with the kind of grin that sells cars and opens doors. “We promise, ma’am. It’ll only take a minute. We’d really appreciate it.”

  “Mmhmm.” Her nostrils flare.

  I crack my knuckles, glancing at Camp again. T
his isn’t going to work. I’m going to have to come up with something else. I can’t fly back to Guidry’s, not when I’d have to carry Max, so we might have to walk. Half-naked. It won’t be the first time that’s happened to me, but it’s never a pleasant prospect.

  Maybe I could try a message spell. I’m still pretty trash at it, but it’s worth an attempt ...

  The woman extends her hand. “Fine. Five minutes.”

  My breath bursts out in a rush as I take it. “Five minutes. Promise.” I shuffle a few steps away, and tap in Hank’s number, which I know by heart.

  As predicted, Hank answers after three rings. “This is Hank.”

  “Hey, it’s Fee. We ran into a little trouble. See—”

  “I’m on my way, where are you?”

  Good old Hank.

  FIFTEEN MINUTE LATER — during which time I place a sleeping spell on Camp and prop him on one of the benches — Hank pulls up to the bus station in his impossibly small, lime green, old school Volkswagen Beetle. Max cackles as the gargoyle somehow manages to crawl out of the tiny car with a surprising amount of grace.

  “This is the second very dangerous man I’ve known to drive the most unexpected car on the face of the planet,” Max says.

  I lift my brows at him.

  “My vampire coworker’s car is purple.”

  “Wow.”

  “Sheah.”

  “Lilac or LSU?”

  Throwing his head back, Max laughs again. “Somewhere in between.”

  Hank lifts his hand as he approaches, a bright pink backpack hanging from one massive thumb, a slight grin half hidden by his bushy beard. “Someone order a change of clothes, a burner phone, and cash?”

  I cross my arms. “In small, non-sequential bills?”

  “And an untraceable number.”

  Max looks between us. “Y’all serious right now? Because that’s pretty awesome.”

  Hank’s grin spreads, and he chucks me the bag. “There’s also water, some rations in there, and a copy of your bounty hunter ID. Just in case.” He folds his arms. “So, you still need to work on that fireproofing spell, huh?”

  Groaning, I march toward the station bathroom. “It’s a work in progress.”

  The magic around my wrist tugs a little the farther away I get from Max. Absently, I rub it, grateful that this particular spell is working just fine. At fifty feet, our connection would yank him toward me like a high-powered magnet. Thankfully, the bathroom isn’t that far. Sure, he’s already seen me naked, but a girl needs a moment of privacy now and again.

  In the handicap stall, I slip quickly into the well-worn jeans and t-shirt, then clean unknown public restroom gunk off one foot at a time before carefully sliding them into a new pair of shoes. Bless Hank and his wet wipes. Though I’ve never been a germaphobe, I don’t mess with bus station bathroom floors. Fates only know what people have done to the tile in here.

  Shouldering the backpack, I jog out of the bathroom to find Max and Hank laughing, the sound reverberating across the platform. I purse my lips to stop a grin as I pause to watch a moment from the doorway. Hank presses a hand to his broad chest, a sure sign of utter amusement.

  Camp lies still against the wall on the bench about a foot from the gargoyle, my spell keeping him wrapped up nicely. I’ll lift it when we leave, but for now, it’s best for everyone if he keeps drooling on his own shirt sleeve.

  “Done with your exhibitionism?”

  I slide my hooded eyes to Max, then grin and toss his shirt back to him. “Try not to drown in your disappointment.”

  He and Hank laugh again. “I’ll do my best,” the water spirit says, pressing a palm to his chest as if wounded. “But it will be a torturous endeavor.”

  With a snort, Hank nudges Camp with the toe of his boot. “Want me to take care of this guy? I can’t guarantee anything, but I might be able to get something out of him. It could be telling if the person who ordered the bounty in the first place sent out a broad call. They might be getting impatient.”

  The muscles between my shoulders wind together and Max sways between his feet. Hank’s got a point. If the buyer is getting impatient, other hunters might be after us as well. Again, that asterisk on the PNN app. Add the Amazons to the mix and this job just got a lot more complicated. In a perfect world, I’d interrogate Camp myself, but I have to hand Max back off to Yaritza asap.

  Then again.

  I chew the inside corner of my mouth. Then again, if I’m the one who gets Max to the very powerful buyer — whoever it is — I might gain the respect of someone who can help me with this stupid curse. All I have to do is figure out who this person is and navigate sidestepping Yaritza without napalming any bridges.

  I give Hank a sharp nod. “Yeah, see what you can find out. We’ve got to get moving, but text me when you find anything out, huh?”

  “You got it, Fee,” Hank says, gripping Camp by the arm, and pulling him up and over his shoulder. “And be careful. If the buyer did send out a general call, every hunter who hears about it will be after you.”

  “Thanks Hank.” I punch his shoulder.

  Gently, mind. Trying to hit him full out would definitely break one of my fingers and I need all of those to function. At least until I die again tomorrow. Of the many obnoxious aspects of my curse, this is one I don’t mind too much. Though staying stuck at sixteen blows, at least any injury I sustain is totally reset the next time I die and come back.

  It’s the little things.

  “Be careful, Fee,” Hank says, bumping me with his elbow, also gently. “You know as well as I do how dangerous other hunters are, not to mention the Amazons.”

  “Be careful yourself.” I wink.

  As Hank drives off with Camp slumped in his passenger seat, I buy our bus tickets, then drop onto the now empty bench to wait for our ride. Max props himself against the wall, arms crossed and his gaze far off. It’s the kind of look that begs probing questions. Instead of giving in, I take stock of every person who walks past, suspicion on high alert.

  Power walkers replace early morning stumblers, business attire and yoga pants trade places with clubwear. I don’t trust the earbuds and fitness trackers. Any hunter might use one of these as props, convenient ways to divert suspicion. All too easy to fall into a false sense of security.

  The next bus pulls up as sunshine punctures the darkness on the horizon. Rays as sharp as knives stab pinpoints through fire-red clouds. Without a word, Max and I climb the steps and make our way to the very back. With Max tucked into the window seat, I guard the aisle, shifting my narrowed gaze from passenger to passenger. None look outright familiar, but one could still be a rival bounty hunter, or Amazon.

  I’ll have to stay alert if I want to make it to the checkpoint without dying again today. With a rumble, the bus groans forward. Crossing my arms, I solidify my expression into one that challenges anyone to make eye-contact and rest my head against the seatback.

  “Does that happen a lot?” Max asks.

  The tendons along my neck cramp. “Does what happen a lot?”

  “Hank coming to your rescue.”

  I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, but my gut reaction denial craters to ash and the truth spills out anyway. “Hank’s always there in a pinch. Gargoyles are naturally inclined to be helpful, but his superhero complex is more intense than most on account of his sister.”

  “His sister?”

  “Magical overdose a year or so before I left the fae realm.” I trace a thumbnail with my pointer finger. “He blames himself for her death. Something about not being supportive enough or protective enough or something. It’s ridiculous.”

  Max rubs the puckered space between his brows. “Trauma and loss tend to do that to people. Paranormal or plain toast, wounds like that make us limp.”

  I pick at one of my cuticles, then nod slowly. “I can’t argue with that. Can’t complain about it either. Half my bounties wouldn’t exist without those wounds.”

  “People want
justice,” Max says. “And when they don’t get it legally, they’ll go after it other ways.”

  “What we do is legal. You heard Hank, I have a license and everything.”

  “Where do you take your bounties? The Tribunal, or the person who placed the order?”

  Shifting in my seat, I tap out a dissonant rhythm on my upper arm. There’s not a good answer for that. Unlike the humans, we’re not hired by a bail bondsman or anyone connected to our judicial system. And while our contracts all state that the one who orders the bounty ought to report to the paranormal government — officially known as the Tribunal — we never follow up to ensure that happens.

  A little ball of nerves hardens in my stomach, but I swallow every response to Max’s question. He’s doing exactly what every fugitive does: trying to convince me to let him go by appealing to my sense of right and wrong, justice and injustice. It’s only galling me because he connected his own plight to mine. But I won’t fall for it.

  No amount of empathy will blow me off course, not when fulfilling this bounty might put me on a path to breaking my curse.

  5.

  HALFWAY TO BREAUX BRIDGE, the bus blows a tire.

  My heart rockets into my throat as it swerves onto the shoulder and slams to a stop. I sit up a little straighter, glaring out every window available, then analyze the reactions of our fellow passengers. Everyone groans. Some people pull out their phones. A few swear. All rational responses to the situation. But again, any rival bounty hunter or Amazon would be able to fake this easily.

  The question is, do I pull Max out onto the street, or do we stay on the bus? Inside, we might get trapped. But this blown tire might be meant to drive us out into the open. My gut is absolutely no help. Not when everything in me resists either exposure or imprisonment. The driver, however, makes this decision for me.