Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame

by E. C. Farrell

  When Zeph looks at me again, I speak without thinking it through. “Can that magic break curses?”

  A wrinkle cuts a path between his brows. “That depends entirely on the nature of the curse.”

  Rubbing my throat, I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I shouldn’t be wasting time on this. Not when any minute a real rival bounty hunter might catch up with us. But it’s far too tempting not to ask, especially after what I’ve witnessed him do in the last few minutes.

  “Daily death,” I say in a scrape of a whisper. “A twisting of my phoenix power wherein I die at least once every twenty-four hours and have no opportunity for rebirth.”

  That wrinkle deepens and Zeph extends a hand toward me. “May I?”

  Throat tight, I manage the barest of nods, hindered by the weakest grip on hope. Zeph’s fingers touch my temple once again. This time, I feel nothing. At least not at first. Then, slowly, gently, magic brushes against magic. Something at the core of my being hums, trembling like a plucked harp string.

  Zeph drops his hand, scratching the scruff of his jaw, eyes now storm dark. “This is ancient magic. Ancient, and terribly powerful. The likes of which I’ve never personally encountered. What kind of witch placed this on you?”

  Hope disintegrates and I sag in my seat. “A very angry one.” I pick dead skin off my cuticles. “She wanted revenge on my dad, so she aimed a curse at me, thinking that might hurt him more than anything else. Jokes on her. He doesn’t care.”

  The lump in my throat from last night returns with such force even my fury can’t hold back the tears. Using a fist to scrub them away, I drag in a lung-full of air to stop the stupid downpour. Stress must be getting to me. I’m not usually one for waterworks.

  “I’m so sorry,” Zeph says. “I can’t break a spell this powerful, but I’d be happy to look into someone who could. Our community is well connected.”

  “Thank you,” I say without much feeling. “My gargoyle friend is doing the same thing, but it can’t hurt to have someone else on the job.”

  From the depths of his pants pocket, Zeph pulls a glittering gold seashell and presses it into my palm. “This may help on your journey as well. If you find your magic weakening, or you are weary, this charm can amplify your powers, help direct them. As long as it’s on your person, all you have to do is concentrate on it before casting a spell.”

  Thanking him again, I wipe my nose with a napkin and force a lie of a smile. Another dead end in my search for answers. Not much of a surprise. At the very least, if I can’t find a way to save myself, I can try to save Max. Maybe in the end a little karma will help.

  14.

  WITH THE EXTRA OOMPH from mermaid magic, Max and I make it to Piracicaba after just a few more jumps. We land next to a river as the sun dips behind a wall of trees. Light pokes through bunches of leaves and spindly branches, and the sound of wheels on concrete roars somewhere beyond the small forest. In the distance, small, flat boats chug toward a skyline dark with tall buildings.

  Max sinks into a crouch on the bank and splashes water on his face. “That wasn’t so bad,” he says. “I always forget how potent mermish magic is. Hopefully his ability to find someone to help you is just as powerful.”

  I force the corners of my mouth up but can’t make the rest of my face get with the program. “Better not to hope.” Pulling my cell out of my bag, I swipe up the GPS, then type Machados into the search bar. “Ready to try and find us a witness?”

  Shadows stretch across Max’s cheeks as he straightens. “As much as I can be. Did I get us close-ish?”

  “It’s about a ten-minute walk.” I look him up and down. “Think your delicate feet can handle it?”

  With a chuckle, Max shoves me gently with an elbow, and the two of us set off, following the map’s directions. Star-gilded night slides slowly up the horizon ahead of us, darkening the shadows extending across our path and turning the river black. Every rustle in the bushes to our right triggers a flinch of muscles through my entire body.

  I watch the forest out of the corner of my eye, my skin itching with gooseflesh, my paranoia at full blast. “Max?”

  “Yeah?” he says, matching my whisper.

  “Besides water spirits, what other paranormals are native to Brazil?”

  The tendons along Max’s jaw stand out as he swallows. “Too many to count. Why? See something?”

  My shoulder blades pinch together. “I’m not sure.”

  A low gurgling rumble rolls from the darkness. Heart drumming against my sternum, I grab Max’s wrist and pick up the pace. Glowing eyes flash in my peripheral vision. Every instinct urges me to run, even as logic screams against it. My body splits the difference and I set off at a jog.

  With a snarl, those eyes spring over a thick fallen tree. A wolf-like creature bounds after us. Its massive legs move much faster and with more precision than seems possible. Silver-furred and at least twice the size of Sam’s werewolf form, the creature tears after us, fresh blood dripping from its fangs.

  Max flips a hand around to grab my forearm, water bamfing us away from the creature. We don’t get far. Max stumbles, in better shape because of Zeph’s magic, but still running on empty after traveling us so far. Slick with sweat, he recovers his footing and tries again. This time we only make it a few feet away.

  The werewolf jumps at us. It rams into me, digging its claws into the back of my shoulder, and snapping at my face. I wrench my arm out of Max’s hand and shift into phoenix form. Calling out with my native song, I claw at the werewolf’s eyes, sending a wave of fire across its fur.

  The flames slide right off it and the wolf takes a swipe at me. Before it makes contact, a massive wave of water slams into it, forcing the creature off the path and into the bushes. With a hard flap of my wings, I catch Max by the shoulders with my talons, and use every ounce of my power to blast us into the sky.

  I take us as far as I can, settling us down in an alley before I burn out. My legs buckle as Max and I both collapse against the brick wall gasping for air. Scalding liquid soaks my arm, drips red onto the concrete under my feet. I let out a strangled groan.

  “Maybe we should have bribed Zeph to come with us,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “Ooof, that looks bad, mama.” Max’s voice shakes. “Let’s see your bag. You’ve got...” he coughs, drawing in a ragged breath. “You’ve still got first aid stuff in there, yeah?”

  I ease my backpack off my shoulders, wincing when one of the straps slides across the claw marks. “There should be some left. And water. Drink some water. I don’t want to have to try and carry you to the bar.”

  Though shaking and exhausted, Max helps me sit, then tears open one of the antiseptic bags and gently dabs the wound on my shoulder. “Sorry about that.”

  “About what?” I crane to look at him.

  “I shouldn’t have landed us so close to the woods,” he says, focusing on the task of cleaning my arm. “All I was thinking about was the river and needing water. I didn’t think about the fact that there might be a lobisomem, uh, werewolf. Honestly, I’m a little shocked there was one that close to the road. Though I guess I shouldn’t be. Creatures have been showing up in weird places lately.”

  I rest an elbow on one of my knees. “Oh yeah?”

  “At least in Houston they have,” Max says, opening a second packet. “We had an Ozark Howler attack The Mercury Room a while back. During the dinner rush. Granted it could’ve been drawn there by my pureblood buddy, but it’s still weird.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” I suppress a grunt when the wipe slides over one of the cuts. “Powerful vibrations might be strong enough to attract a howler, but that’s pretty far from their usual stomping grounds. Strange.”

  Very strange, actually. Chaotic or not, paranormals like howlers and werewolves usually stick to deserted places, never traveling far. Like wolves or bears, they aren’t likely to leave the safety of their mountains or forests. The only reason Sam lives in a city is becaus
e of Hank. For one of them to actively and aggressively attack in a highly populated area isn’t normal even for abnormal creatures.

  I tuck this thought — full of worry and paranoia — into the back of my mind and set my thoughts onto our current mission as Max finishes dressing my wound. Again, following my GPS, we set off down the sidewalk toward the restaurant at the very end of the street. The sound of laughter and music reach us before we reach it.

  Customers surround the wood tables out front, lounging in brightly painted chairs, chatting, eating, drinking in the green glow of a neon sign crowning the building. Waitstaff bustles in and out between them with the kinds of smiles that sell full bottles of tequila. A man with a sticker covered guitar croons into a microphone.

  Inside, his voice floats through speakers mounted in the corners of the ceiling and the smell of citrus and sizzling meat permeates the air. As we approach the bar along the left side of the restaurant, I eye the liquor along the wall, craving a shot of tequila to numb the pain in my shoulder.

  A young woman with a vibrant koi fish tattoo swimming up her shoulder smiles at us. Cylindrical wood beads clink at the ends of a few fine braids scattered throughout her long, teal-dyed hair and the low lights flash off her hoop nose ring as she greets us in a language I don’t understand. When Max responds, she nods and shifts to English, her accent smoothing out into something surprisingly neutral.

  “Welcome to Machados, what can I get you?”

  “Information, actually,” I say. “I’m on an old missing person’s case, and this was one of the last places he was seen. It’s a long shot because it was a while back but we’re exhausting every possibility. Could we talk to the owner?”

  Tapping the bar with a hand, the woman slides her gaze between Max and me. “No problem. Give me a sec.”

  She swings around with fluid movements, leaning into the kitchen to shout again in Portuguese. A few seconds later, a man with a white flecked black beard and the kind of lashes women glue to their lids walks through the open doorway. His welcoming grin reveals a small gap between his teeth.

  “Boa noite. I’m Carlo Machado.” He shakes our hands as the bartender goes back to serving up drinks. “Nicholya tells me you’re looking for information about a very cold missing person’s case. I’m happy to do what I can, but if it was a long time ago, I’m not sure I’ll be much help. My bartenders or one of the managers might be a better resource. Do you have any idea if this missing person was a regular?”

  I look to Max, but he lifts his shoulders. “Based on what he said, maybe, but I’m not sure. I definitely never came here with him.”

  Pulling up the article about Joel on my cell, I flip it around and show the owner the article. “He may have also come in with a woman. Though I don’t have a picture of her, unfortunately.”

  Stroking his jaw with a pointer finger and thumb, Mr. Machado studies my screen. The shadows created by laugh lines stretch as he scrunches his face. “I’m sorry. Others have been here asking about him as well, but I’m afraid I don’t remember him. It isn’t often that I’m out in the restaurant. I spend most of my time in the back.”

  There’s a reason I don’t hold too tight to hope. Even clutching it loosely doesn’t fully protect me from the disappointment that now drops with a thunk in my chest. Max sags against the bar, letting his head drop into a hand. We both knew it might be a dead end — especially since other hunters have already come down here — but that doesn’t make it sting any less.

  I rub my hairline with a knuckle, sucking in a sharp breath when the cuts on my shoulder sting. “Maybe we should go with plan B,” I say under my breath to Max.

  Lip curling, Max drums his fingers on the bar, still focused on the owner. “You mentioned managers or servers. Maybe one of them would remember?”

  “Yes. It’s possible. A good portion of my staff has turned over since then,” Mr. Machado says, then pats the bartender’s back. “Except for Nicholya. Though she wasn’t exactly employed at the time, she might remember better than I. See if you can help them, meu docinho de côco. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

  “So am I.” Max mumbles something incomprehensible as the owner turns back to the kitchen. He only allows his expression to sag for a moment though before flashing that smile at the bartender. “Think you can help us out Nicholya?”

  “Call me Nic.” Wiping her hands on a ratty, white washcloth, she rests her elbows on the countertop. “How long ago did you say it was?”

  “Four years,” I say, showing her the article with Joel’s picture.

  Nic’s pale pink lips part and she presses a hand to her throat. “I know him,” she says in a whisper I barely hear over the loud music.

  Max grips my forearm but says nothing as Nic continues.

  “My mother used to work here as a cook. After school I would come sit in the corner to do homework and wait for her shift to end. Mr. Smith would come in a few times a week for a drink. He and my mom used to exchange recipes and stories and he would tell me jokes ... really bad ones, but they always made me laugh.”

  “He had the worst jokes,” Max says with a smile that doesn’t lift the drooping corners of his eyes.

  Nic laughs, but then gulps and her whole face falls. “The last time he came in, though, he was so, painfully sad. He said he had no reason to live anymore...” Tears magnify her eyes. “We tried to convince him to stay until he’d calmed down, but we couldn’t stop him. You said he’s still missing?”

  Her voice lifts at the end of her sentence, brittle and high as if barely clinging to hope.

  I sigh. “Dead is technically missing when you jump off a cliff and into the sea.”

  Nic’s hand moves from her throat to cover her mouth. “I should’ve stopped him. Forced him to stay. I’m so sorry.”

  Max rubs his temples, mumbling again. “There wasn’t much you could’ve done.” He walks his fingertips along his brows. “Is there anything else you remember? Like, did he say where he was going or did he leave a note?”

  “Oh. Oh yes!” Nic taps the bar top again with both of her hands. “Yes, he left something. I wasn’t working here yet when those others came asking about him. Otherwise, I would’ve shown them too.”

  As she digs into her pocket, I press the sole of my shoe into the footrest on the chair and push myself up to see better. Nic pulls out a silver pocket watch at the end of a chain. Prying it open with a thumbnail, she tilts it so we can see inside. On one side is a clock, its off-white face dead still and silent, while on the other, a much younger Iris Smith smiles out at us.

  Max and I look at each other at the same time, then back at Nic. The bartender scrunches her shoulders to her ears. “I was told to throw it away after he stopped coming around, but that didn’t feel right. I figured someone needed to take care of it if he ever came back.”

  Moistening his lips, Max extends a hand. “Can I?”

  “Yes, absolutely.” She presses it into his palm. As he stares at the design, Nic asks. “What will you do now? Tell his family? I know finding his body is probably out of the question, but maybe this can help?”

  “We have another lead we need to follow before we go to his family,” I say, pressing a knuckle into a throbbing spot on my left eyebrow. “But it’s probably a dead end.”

  Max props his chin on a fist. “Almost definitely a dead end.” He laughs wryly, still examining the watch. “In theory I could drag the ocean for his body, but that might take a while, even with my mad skills. Especially after four years of marinating in salt water.”

  “Are you...” Dark eyes darting around the bar, Nic lowers her voice and edges a little closer to Max. “... are you a water spirit?”

  His spine straightens in surprise. “How’d you know, little mama?”

  “Gift and a curse,” she says, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Water paranormals almost always recognize each other and I’m particularly good at sniffing them out.”

  What are the odds? First a merperson in
Panama, now a... “What are you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Cheeks tinged pink but eyes bright with a smile, Nic plays with one of the beads in her hair. “A siren. Though I only lure sailors to their deaths on high holidays.” She winks. “But in all seriousness, if you need help searching the ocean, someone in the community around here might have seen something. They’re not exactly my biggest fans — silly assumptions about my kind and all that — but they might help the two of you. The mer-folk around here are a little less interested in saving humans in their waters than their African kin. Most prefer not to interfere.”

  I drum my fingers on the back of a chair. “The problem is that we’re running out of time. After four years I doubt finding his body is even possible at this point.”

  Max groans and drops his head onto his folded arms. “Plan B is probably a waste of time too. My mom’s never going to tell us anything helpful, much less willingly turn herself in.”

  He’s stalling and I can’t blame him. From everything he’s told me, his mom is painfully unlikely to come clean, but we can’t waste too much time searching for a body that’s likely nothing more than fish food, not with Amazons and bounty hunters searching for us. For Max’s sake, though, I try one more angle.

  “Has anyone in the community ever mentioned an Aline Avila?” I ask Nic.

  Her fingers flinch. Two sets of black-painted nails dig into the wood of the bar as the darkness of her eyes expands until the whites are obliterated. “Avila.” The name slides out in a hiss like water turning to steam. “I’m very familiar with that name.”

  “How?” Max and I say at almost the exact same time.

  “Her antics are the reason my mother left, Brazil.” Nic crosses her arms. “She needed to get as far away as possible before some in our community came after her because they assumed she was up to the same thing as Aline. They almost came after me too, but after I swore never to sing, they relented. Mom and I figured it was safer for us to be apart ... Too many sirens in one place tend to make the locals restless.”