Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame Read online

  Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame

  Cursed

  E.C. Farrell

  Published by E.C. Farrell, 2021.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  Epilogue

  A Note from E.C.

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2021 by E.C. Farrell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contact [email protected] for more information. Cover art by Wynter Designs Book Covers.

  Farrell, E.C. Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame. Kindle Edition.

  1.

  NOTHING RUINS GOING after a bounty quite like dying.

  Granted, I burst back to life after a few seconds, but it’s still super inconvenient, not to mention exhausting. I just barely miss ducking under the bullet that kills me today. Pain cracks through the top of my skull, triggering an explosion of fire from the center of my chest that engulfs my body in a wave of comforting heat.

  The blankness of death lasts barely a minute before I gasp, emerging from a pile of ash, totally naked, and seriously put out. Growling, I shove the smoking gun out of my face with an outside block and drive a knee into the crotch of my query— a vampire whose pride has clearly gotten the better of him.

  “That was one of my favorite shirts.” I nail him again. “Do you have any idea—” I hook a bare arm around his neck and slam his hand into the alley wall, “how hard it is to find a Hawaiian shirt that fits right?”

  Twisting the gun free of his fingers, I nail him with an elbow to the back of the head and let him drop, dazed, to the damp, trash-matted concrete. Before his vampire magic can catch up and heal the damage done, I snatch a leather cuff out of my bag a few feet away from the ash I left behind and slap it around his wrist.

  The second it snaps into place, it glows with dark magic that matches the red tattoo on my forearm, binding us together. Fae like me — of the phoenix variety — often scorn those who learn spells. But if it gives me an edge, I plan to learn as much as I possibly can.

  I sigh heavily when the vampire springs to his feet. “Down boy. And do shut up, I always have a headache when I come back from the dead.”

  His jaw locks shut, and the magic of the cuffs forces him into a seated position near the dumpster. Fury narrows his eyes. The vampire smolder is real even with those boy-next-door freckles. I give him an exaggerated pout as I pull a new set of clothes out of my bag, sliding into a pair of ratty jeans, a sports bra, and t-shirt before glaring at the pile of ash I left behind a few moments ago.

  “Seriously, that shirt was awesome. But then I guess I should’ve ducked faster.” Hauling my bag over a shoulder, I tuck a strand of coppery red hair behind a pointed ear, then think better of it and let it fall back into place. “Oh well. No use crying over torched shirts. Come along. I have places to go, bounties to collect.”

  I scoop up his discarded gun, clicking the safety and storing it in my bag as well, then snap my fingers. My tattoo warms as its spell drags the vampire to his feet. Together, we march out of the alley and into the brightly colored chaos of Bourbon Street. Young, old, and every kind of folk in between drift up and down the sidewalk beneath glowing neon signs. Crowds hang over balconies, gaping at street performers, or cat-calling random strangers.

  Most drink, many stumble, some dance all to the sound of loud drums and a thousand other instruments clashing with each other for attention. Thanks to the magic cuffs, my silenced mark and I blend into the revelry easily. Even the horse-riding cops pay us no mind.

  Not that they would anyway with half the women flashing them. That distracts even the most honorable of their law enforcement no matter how often they see it. Humans are strange, fascinating beings. Three years outside of the fae realm — a magical plane parallel to this one — and I still don’t fully understand them.

  A block or so down from The Cat’s Meow, I steer the newbie vamp into Club Arzilla, a smaller brick building blaring zydeco music. When I first encountered this smooth creole sound, I didn’t quite know how to process it. Now, however, it’s taken over as a somewhat comforting score to my life on Bourbon Street.

  Bouncer dude Brian — a shifter who uses his bull strength to bust heads — nods as I walk into the club. His hard stare softens into an almost smile when he sees me. “Evening, Fee. Tavia’s on the second floor.”

  I click my tongue. “Thank you, sir.”

  Weaving through groups of bachelorette woo-girls, hollering bros, and general sloppy drunks singing very off-key, I lead my mark up to the second floor and pause at the entrance to the private section in the north corner of the balcony. Tavia — the owner of the club and a fae like me — lounges on a rich teal couch surrounded by absurdly gorgeous paranormals.

  Tavia’s bodyguard, Liz, stands in the space not marked off by red velvet rope. She tilts her head at me. “Die on the job again, phoenix?”

  “Is there ash on my face?” I ask, brushing the tip of my nose with my fingers, then rubbing them together.

  “It suits you.” Liz winks and steps aside. “Tavia won’t mind, especially since you come bearing gifts.”

  Gripping the vamp’s collar, I step past her with a little swagger in my step. “I considered a big red bow, but thought that might be overkill, even for Bourbon Street.”

  Tavia swivels her head in my direction when I waltz into the middle of her little couch circle, the flashing lights catching her beauty mark piercing so it flashes. “Fee. Early with your bounty as always. You never cease to impress.”

  I rest an elbow on the mark’s shoulder. He squirms, but with my magical command, can’t do much else. “Just slide that money on over into my account and he’s yours, yours, all yours.”

  The club owner traces the rim of her martini glass with a middle finger. “About that price.”

  Internally, I flip her the bird as the human saying goes. Strange phrase. An apt one though. Externally, however, I keep on my most professional expression. Slowly, I pull a pack of cigarettes from a mesh pocket on my bag, light one up, and blow out a slow stream of smoke before I respond.

  “Louisiana guild standard. If you’re unhappy with it, take it up with Yaritza. Or, if you need to think about it, I can store our friend in a safe place for a while.” I pat him hard on the chest. “Personally though, debating price with Yaritza isn’t something I’d attempt. Bad odds.”

  Tavia runs her tongue across her teeth. “You’re cursed to die every day, yes?”

  “At midnight if I’m not killed. You got it. Like ... what is that story? Cinderella. Except instead of turning into a pumpkin, I burst into flame, turn to ash, then spring forth to do it all over again.” I cross one ankle over the other, tracking everyone around me as I lean more of my weight into the mark. “It tends to be inconvenient in terms of wardrobe, but I manage.”

  “Fascinating.” Tavia sips her drink. “What might happen if you’re killed twice in a day?”

  I blow an obnoxiously loud raspberry. “Your bill would go up because I’d definitely charge you for a new outfit. And don’t th
ink cutting off my arm will short circuit our cuffs. If that happens, the mark goes up in flames. Which may work out for you if you plan to kill him, but somehow, I doubt that would be quite as satisfying as whatever you have planned. Then you’d have to deal with Yaritza, and as I said, I doubt very seriously you want that.”

  Carefully, slowly, Tavia taps her knee with each finger of her free hand. The stupidly pretty paranormals around her don’t watch outright, but their eyes slide in her direction even as they pretend to focus on other things.

  One of the men — a pixie based on his pointed features and faint, moonlike glow — slides a hand into the pocket of his jacket. Magic sparks through the air like static electricity. Taking a long drag from my cigarette, I feign a yawn, ready to use vampire boy as a shield. I’ve died twice in one day before. The second time is always worse so I’m in no rush to do it again.

  Tavia snaps, and the air calms. “You have an excellent point, Fee. No reason to get Yaritza involved.”

  She slips her cell phone off the table next to her, swiping the screen with a thumb, then holding it up for me to see. Mine buzzes in one of the mesh pouches on my bag as her money slips into my account with a happy little ding.

  “Lovely. I’ll disconnect from our friend here once I’m nice and safe and out of range. Enjoy your evening.” With a final wink, I slap the newbie vamp on his backside and saunter back toward the stairs.

  On the sidewalk below, soaked once again with humidity and cigarette smoke, I press my fingers into my tattoo and mutter a few words, officially leaving my bounty to Tavia and whatever fate she has planned for him.

  COMPARED TO TAVIA’S club, Guidry’s is downright tranquil. A bar on the farthest edge of Bourbon Street, it conveniently butts up against the studio apartment I call home, and typically serves me drinks even though according to human rules, I’m not old enough to partake in alcohol.

  Silly humans. Silly restrictions. No logic behind them. In the fae realm, children drink at their parents’ tables and buy their own liquor once they turn seventeen.

  When I shove open the heavy wood front door, the gargoyle bartender, Hank Theriot, immediately retrieves a bottle of Corralejo Tequila from the shelf. Even his bushy beard can’t hide the grimace twisting his mouth. Though I die every day, something about me getting killed on the job disturbs him, bothers his big brotherly tendencies. His concern warms me right down to my tippy toes.

  I weave between the black painted tables toward the bar. Guests here speak in much quieter tones, though some wear brightly colored beads, sparkle with glitter, and slur a bit. No bachelorette parties in sight. And no shouting either, thank the Fates. Only soft acoustic guitar music from a young woman on the small stage in the corner.

  Paranormals move about with ease, relying on the general inebriation and weirdness that characterizes Bourbon Street for cover. Sam — Hank’s sort of adopted son, occasional bar hop, and full-time werewolf — gives me a sunny smile before hauling a plastic tub onto a shoulder.

  Most in our world feel a particular way about werewolves. Not only is their condition difficult to control, but they’re not natural born paranormals. My parents in particular loathe their kind, which puts me of a mind to approve of them in general. Also, I’d have to be a horrible creature to hate a sweetheart like Sam, whose gentle spirit stands in sharp contrast to the violent wolf living inside him.

  Hip checking him, I give him a wink. “Busy dinner rush, buddy?”

  “Healthy flow,” Sam says, setting down his load on the next deserted table. “Are you in for the night? I saved you some etouffee. And I fixed your shower head. Let me know if it starts leaking again.”

  “You’re a doll.” I kiss one of the scars on his cheek. “But keep that etouffee for yourself. You need it more than I do.”

  Sam huffs as if annoyed but fails to cover up either his smile or the lovely blush that warms his cheeks. Though I know he wants to, he won’t argue, not with the full moon coming soon. Poor kid needs all the energy he can get.

  I flop onto one of the stools at the bar, resting my chin on a fist, then grinning at Hank as I draw in a deep breath of cedar and beard wax. Nothing like the comforts of home.

  “What got you this time?” Hank asks, the hard muscles of his arms rippling the vibrant tattoos covering them.

  I point to my temple with two fingers and make a gunshot sound with my mouth. “I need to work on my bobbing and weaving. He destroyed one of my favorite shirts. Very rude of him if you ask me. Also foolish with all that vampire strength available. Maybe he’s a late bloomer. Still getting used to his magic.”

  Hank sets a tequila and lime in front of me, then props his elbows on the counter edge. “The dark blue one with giant pink flowers?”

  I fake a sniffle, lifting my drink as if to toast it. “May it rest in ash and cinder.” Knocking back the tequila, I savor the vibrant warmth as it rolls through me, relaxing the residual tension from Tavia’s.

  As I slam the glass back down, Hank strokes his beard. “Did you still get your mark?”

  I scoff. “Please. That dope just got in a lucky shot. He is now secure in Tavia’s hands. I might feel a bit sorry for him if he hadn’t ruined my shirt.” Pursing my lips, I shove the tip of my tongue into the corner of my cheek, not even having to ask Hank for a refill.

  He tilts the bottle sideways, his silver-gray eyes intent on the clear stream. The charmed medallion necklace he wears adds warmth to his marble-hard skin, and softens the tips of his sharpened canines, but its magic can’t quite normalize that penetrating gaze. Though his horns and wings only come out in a fight, his height and muscle mass alone are enough to terrify anyone considering making trouble at Guidry’s.

  Under all this, though, is a big old softy who fosters kittens, teaches self-defense for free to victims of domestic violence, and plays Dungeons and Dragons on the weekends.

  Hank sets the bottle back down, then reaches under the counter and places a box in front of me. Eyes bugging, I push my drink aside to tear at the tape. This tactic fails quickly. Laughing, Hanks swoops in with the assist, ripping it open with ease to reveal an identical Hawaiian shirt to the one I just lost.

  I dig it out of the ruins of the package and hold it up like a trophy. “Hank. You’re the best. Best of the best. Don’t ever let anybody tell you different.” Hugging it to my chest, I lean forward, one eye narrowed. “Have you found anything about my curse?”

  Hank sighs heavy through his nose. “Nothing yet. It’s difficult since the witch who placed it on you is dead.”

  Disappointment hardens like a boulder in my chest, and I grimace. “Yeah, killing her was a mistake. Live and learn. That’s what they say, I think. Live and learn.”

  “Don’t give up though,” Hank says. “I haven’t exhausted all my resources. Not yet.”

  The front door bangs open. Spine tingling, I shove my shiny new shirt into my bag, then crane over my shoulder to see Yaritza waltz inside. Her long hair floats behind her like some sort of superhero in a leather jacket. A dude about my age follows her, his face tight in the way that all charmed bounties are.

  Bruises spread across the tawny skin of his temples, his black hair sticks out in every direction, and a tear crawls up the edge of his t-shirt. Fire sparks in his dark eyes, though. They dart around the room, not desperate but sharp, alert, and when I meet his gaze, he smiles. All confidence and challenge. I rock back an inch or so, scrutinizing this expression, searching for twitches, cracks in what must be a mask for fear. Seeing none, I take a slow sip of my tequila.

  Yaritza stops at the bar with him at her heels, resting an elbow on the counter next to the demolished box. “Fee, Theriot, be on alert,” she says under her breath, gripping the back of her bounty’s neck. “We have Amazons looking for us. This one’s got some powerful friends.”

  Shock prickles up my spine. Hank straightens, snagging a bottle of whiskey, then pours Yaritza a drink. Though he doesn’t say anything, I can almost hear his thoughts. The involvement
of these very justice-driven warriors means this mark is, at bare minimum, not a criminal. As a gargoyle, Hank will have a problem with this.

  As an employee of a bar that’s partly owned by paranormal bounty hunters though? His position is more than a little shaky.

  Glancing from Hank to Yaritza, I slide my lime around the rim of my glass. “Are they on your tail?”

  The mark’s uninterrupted smile beams in my peripheral vision. It’s hard to resist looking at, and when I do, he winks. No one magically trapped by a bounty hunter should display this much confidence. No one. Suspicious. Way too suspicious.

  Yaritza takes a slow inhale of her whiskey, then rolls her eyes. “I have their scrying blocked for now, so they won’t be able to pin down my location, but their witches are powerful. A fight is coming. Never a fan of going head-to-head with them, but the buyer isn’t someone you say no to. Be ready to preserve the contract at any cost.”

  Side stepping the bar, drink in hand, she leads her mark to the stairs near the kitchen. I slump against my seat back, staring after them. “That’s not complicated.”

  Hank runs a rag over the counter. “Not in the least.”

  “I won’t tell anyone you heard the thing about the Amazons if you want.” I click my tongue. “Plausible deniability. No moral conundrums for you.”

  Stroking his beard, Hank sighs. “Sure, would like to know more. If that kid’s innocent—”

  “Nobody’s innocent, Hank. Not really. We’ve all got corpses in some state of rot in our wardrobes.” I suck lime juice off my thumb, finish off the last of my tequila, and slide off the stool. “Thanks for the shirt.”

  Hauling my backpack onto my shoulders, I follow Yaritza up the stairs, bypassing the second floor where she often keeps bounties in transit, and jog to my studio apartment at the very top. Four locks and one shield spell of my own making later, I clomp inside and toss my bag onto the patchwork couch in the living room.

  Changing into a tank top and athletic pants, I drag a set of dumbbells out from under my workout bench. Tequila is great for numbing nerves, but nothing quite beats the high of my training sessions. With each curl, press, or squat, I mumble earth realm profanities, mainly directed at my family.