Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame

by E. C. Farrell

  I haul my plastic tub out of the restaurant and into the kitchen. Cooks shout at each other on the other side of the expo window, shrimp and sausage sizzle in pans, knives slice through celery and carrots at top speed. My stomach snarls something fierce. The wolf growls along with it, insisting we eat now.

  Transferring dishes into the washer, I glance around, then mumble under the roar around me, “Don’t worry, brother, just a few more hours.”

  It’s weird talking to the wolf. Far as I can tell, most who’ve been bitten don’t do this, but something about having conversations with the critter who takes over a few days out of the month makes sense to me. No point in pretending he’s not around and doesn’t have a mind of his own.

  My pocket buzzes. I scramble to retrieve my cell and unlock the screen.

  Hank: Headed back with Fee and Max tomorrow morning. Holding up ok?

  Relief runs through me and even the wolf relaxes. I trust the cage I’ve built for myself on the full moon, but without Hank for backup, anxiety scrapes my nerves. For the last three nights, dread has followed me around like a second shadow, worry that one of my precautions might fail and Hank won’t be around to stop me from hurting somebody.

  Doesn’t much matter that I have more control than most werewolves, the risk terrifies me. Thank God Hank’s on his way back. Fee too. I’ll have to double check her pipes to make sure that leaks all sealed up. I text him back.

  Me: Holding up. Will be glad to have you home.

  A solid wall of muscle rams into my back, shoving me against the metal corner of the industrial dishwasher. Every cut and bruise from the last few nights smarts with the impact. Arthur Trahan — a vampire server with an intense dislike for werewolves — muscles me out of the way to drop a trio of food encrusted plates into my tub. He stops for about two seconds to throw me a glance.

  “Sorry,” he says without sounding much like it. “Didn’t see you.”

  Sure, you didn’t, friend.

  I don’t waste energy on either a fake smile or a glare. Instead, I keep my head down, ignoring him even as my wolf rages at the clear challenge. Long as Hank’s around, Arthur leaves me be. Strong or not, vamps can’t go toe to toe with a gargoyle, not even on their best days. Right now, though, he’s feeling brave.

  He shoulder checks me again on his way back out onto the floor. The wolf’s pacing shifts into a furious sprinting circle, his howl so loud in my head I have to squeeze my eyes shut. I grip the rim of my plastic tub as feral power claws at my burning skin.

  Calm down, brother, I think. He wants you to lash out. But we’re not that dumb, right? Right. Let’s get it together.

  Gulping down air, I wait until the flurry of movement inside me chills back to a restless pace, then finish unloading and follow Arthur into the restaurant again. The dinner rush picks up, distracting me completely from the fidgety animal begging for freedom. At the end of the night, I finish up the dishes, cash out, then duck out the back door.

  Halfway down the street, the scrape of a shoe on concrete followed by a derisive laugh triggers an immediate growl from the wolf and shoots sharp prickles up the back of my neck. Nervous energy hums through every nerve. Not much can hurt me — not with werewolf magic ready to go off at any clear threat — but I can’t stomach the thought of setting off the wolf.

  Senses on high alert, I keep walking. Arthur steps onto the sidewalk in front of me. Fear rockets through my body as the wolf growls. I backpedal a few steps, looking for a way out, anything to avoid a conflict at all costs.

  “So, you talk to it huh, freak?” Arthur’s upper lip curls in disgust.

  With no other options, I hook to my left, jogging across the street at least a block away from the crosswalk. This irks me more than is reasonable, but breaking a tiny law is better than tearing into an obnoxious waiter. No matter how fast he’d heal from that kind of attack, I don’t much like the idea of exacerbating the bad blood between us.

  He shouts after me. “It’s bad enough working with a monster. But having a crazy one around is even worse.”

  The wolf’s growl rips into a snarl, begging me to turn right back around and pounce. I pick up my pace as the sound of a newly released wave of traffic roars behind me. Hopefully, this cut Arthur off so he can’t follow. I risk a glance back over my shoulder. A fist blindsides me, connecting with my temple and knocking me off balance.

  Magic builds under my skin as the wolf begs me to let him out. I regain my footing, clinging to control with every ounce of strength, barely able to hear Arthur’s rant over the ringing in my ears. Another shove sends me into a brick wall and a very inhuman growl rolls up my throat.

  Arthur grabs the collar of my shirt and slams a fist into my ribs. “You put us all in danger. It’s paranormals like that make things worse for the rest of us. You’re the reason some of the Tribunal doesn’t want to go public to the humans.”

  His fangs elongate with his fury. I eye them cautiously. This attack is dangerous enough. If he draws blood, I know I won’t be able to keep the wolf from fighting back, defending itself. The best thing I can do is attempt to de-escalate or, at bare minimum, get away from him.

  “You’re not exactly helping the situation, friend.”

  I barely manage to steady my voice. Power wells up inside me, the wolf absolutely furious at this challenge. In human form, I have a better rein on him, but with Arthur in my face, putting hands on me and flashing those pointed teeth, this might not last long. I need to get away from him, and fast.

  The vampire gives me a violent shake. “Hank says you’ve got control,” he slugs me in the stomach again, “but how long before your grip slips? How long before you kill somebody?”

  That ever-present dread wraps around my throat, but I manage to keep my expression passive as I choke out a warning. “You rilin’ up the wolf isn’t going to make that scenario any less likely. Now back off.”

  Harnessing a small rush of the magic thrumming through my body, I force Arthur away with a heavy shove, then wheel around and break into a full out sprint. I don’t slow down until I reach the fifth-floor apartment I share with Hank. Gasping, I jog up the metal stairs on the side of the gray brick building.

  The perch — as Hank calls it — overlooks Bourbon Street and a pretty good chunk of the streets around it, the perfect place for a gargoyle to watch over the folks who live around here. His keen senses miss very little. Without it around, worry grates at me constantly.

  Inside, I grab a sandwich from the fridge, then jog up to the roof. Mouthful of bread and corned beef, I pause in the doorway to stare down the long black shed in the far corner covered in a sliver of moonlight. I won’t need it tonight. Not its chains or locks or straps. But that doesn’t stop a shiver from running through me even as I march to the set of lawn chairs a few feet to its right.

  The wolf snarls.

  “Calm down, brother,” I say. “Soon as I’m done eating, I’ll let you out. Just got to be a little patient.”

  AS PROMISED, I LET the wolf out after I’ve eaten. I steer him away from populated areas and toward the Couturie Forest where we might blend in with other wild animals. On nights without a full moon, I have more control, a better grip on the reigns than normal. I also find that talking to him on the regular encourages him to listen to my command.

  We sprint from shadow to shadow, listening for footsteps or voices or any other form of distinctly human movement. I’ll let him nosh on birds and rabbits all he wants, maybe even an opossum in a pinch, but people are off the menu.

  He grumbles about it but leaves it at that.

  Halfway to the forest, a hissed curse cuts through the quiet of the evening. I pull us up short behind a cluster of thick bushes on a street corner. The wolf growls quietly at the back of his throat, pawing the pavement, ready for a brawl. He sniffs the air, wrinkling his nose when the smell of human fear hits it.

  Go slow, brother, I say. And keep the claws and fangs to yourself. Brawn only.

  With a frustrated
toss of his head, he creeps toward the scent, crouched low to the ground. It leads us to an almost entirely deserted parking lot. Moonlight blanches the cracked concrete, glints off the lone jeep parked right in the middle. We pause in the dark space created by its accompanying office building, eyes narrowed, senses on full alert.

  Movement catches our attention, and finally we spot the source. On the other side of the parking lot, a man in a business suit backs away from a creature that doesn’t look too different from me in wolf form. Apart from its high, sloping shoulders, black fur, and hyena-like build, the untrained eye might mistake us for each other.

  Though I don’t recognize it, the wolf supplies the species immediately: shunka warakin. Again, it’s not words exactly, but I understand the information immediately. I also know it’s incredibly dangerous and it doesn’t belong anywhere near Louisiana. This I get from the territorial fury burning through the wolf.

  Fangs gleaming in the moonlight, the shunka warakin stalks toward the whimpering man, snarling when he tries to slide around it. Inch by inch it forces him backward until he’s fully trapped in a corner between two buildings. Whatever it wants, it’s not good.

  Can we take it? I ask the wolf.

  An affirmative rises up to meet me.

  Then let’s do it, brother. But leave the human alone.

  We rage out of the shadows and across the parking lot toward the other creature, ramming into its side seconds before it pounces on the man. It yelps at the impact but recovers quickly. Wriggling around, the beast snaps for vulnerable bits, claws dragging across the wolf’s thick hide.

  The cuts seal up immediately as our own fangs clamp down on the scruff of its neck. With a violent whip of the head, the shunka warakin flies across three parking spaces, tumbling end over end. We bound after it, going for the jugular before it can get back to its feet. Blood coats the wolf’s tongue as sharp teeth penetrate hide.

  Inwardly I grimace, both from the taste and the thought of injuring it. Dangerous or not, it’s still a living, breathing creature and I don’t much care for causing damage unless strictly necessary. Especially when I’m just about as dangerous to humans as it is. If not more so considering I can transfer my curse if I’m not careful.

  The shunka warakin thrashes, trying to get free of the wolf’s jaws. It succeeds only in tearing a deeper gash in its neck. Claws scrape against concrete. It twists, writhes, then whimpers. Its movements slow, its cries quiet, and finally it sags, hauntingly still in its death.

  I let the wolf tear into its corpse, remove the evidence of the paranormal by consuming its flesh. As he eats, I draw my consciousness back, try not to think too much about what this animal part of me is doing. I don’t risk going too far. One slip and the wolf will take over fully, going after any living thing close by.

  An explosion shatters the quiet and pain slams into the wolf’s shoulder. Terror seizes me as, with a guttural snarl, it wheels around to face the man we just saved. Smoke drifts from the barrel of his gun, its metallic smell staining the air. His eyes widen when the wolf turns on him, lips pulled back from blood fangs.

  Calm down, brother. He can’t hurt you. He’s just scared. Don’t—

  It growls over the rest of my command. Horrified, I fight to regain control, to calm the wolf’s anger. Out of pure desperation, I attempt to shift back into human form, but the wolf shoves me aside, restraining me with its wild, rage-driven magic. With a horrible snarl, it sprints toward the man. His gun goes off twice more before the wolf pounces. Blood splatters the concrete as fangs tear into the man’s throat. I can barely hear his screams over my own.

  At least not until they die out.

  Fury subsides as the man stops moving. The moment a measure of calm slips over the wolf, I rip control back, forcing him away from the parking lot in a full sprint back toward Hank’s apartment, only taking human form when I finally reach the landing at the top of the stairs. Shaking and sweating and covered in blood, I lock myself inside.

  Sinking into a crouch, I duck my head between my knees as if this will somehow protect me from the guilt and shame. This has been my greatest fear. Using the wolf’s strength to help people always came with the risk that one day my grip might slip, that in trying to save someone he would ultimately hurt them. And now it’s happened. My arrogance has gotten someone killed.

  I shove myself to my feet and run to the bathroom, retching into the toilet. A man is dead. Arthur was right. I’m a monster. A danger to humans and natural paranormals alike. I never should’ve tried to control the wolf, to use his magic. My best option now is to turn myself in to the Tribunal.

  Dread at the thought of telling Hank what happened chokes me as I peel off my blood-soaked clothes with shaking limbs and climb into the shower. As I wash away the proof of my failure, I swear to never let that happen again and to find a way to lock up this wolf living inside of me for good.

  Want more of this world?

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  A Note from E.C.

  THANKS SO MUCH FOR reading!

  I so hope you enjoyed Max and Fee’s story. This concept came to me in the middle of writing the first Cursed book. The question of what gives life meaning has always been an interesting one to me, and I hope Fee’s story contributes to that conversation. Because I think the best fiction always sparks discussion.

  I’m so grateful to my eagle-eyed beta readers for their feedback, including my mom who read it an absurd amount of times, and to Wynter Designs for the gorgeous cover!

  The next book in this series, Cursed: Siren’s Mate, is coming soon! Stay up to date by signing up for my newsletter and joining my Facebook group! And don’t forget to leave a review!

  

  About the Author

  About the Author E.C. Farrell never met a book she didn't like. (Just kidding! But she's not going to bad-mouth the ones she couldn't finish and she is still mad about the end of Hunger Games.) She likes her characters sassy and her endings surprising. Fluent in sarcasm, she has also studied Krav Maga and could out-burpee you any day of the week. When she's not writing, she often teaches creative writing classes for a local non-profit organization Write Create.