Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame E.C. Farrell (100 best novels of all time TXT) 📖

bite. I glance at the clock, then back at Max. “That depends entirely on how fancy you plan to get with all that.”

“Fancy but fast. I work in a restaurant, remember? Well versed in all tricks of the trade.”

“Fine. Feed me.”

Max claps his hands, then rubs them together before setting to work as I pour my first cup of liquid alertness. Propped against the pantry door, I watch him cook, every movement smooth, graceful, and very fast. After he slides the bacon into the oven, he sets to work on the eggs. This includes a healthy serving of the heavy cream and butter.

My mouth waters. “Where did you learn how to cook? Not in the restaurant, right?”

“Nah.” Max shakes his head, fully focused on the egg situation. “One of my mom’s conquests, a guy named Joel, was a cook. I was an obnoxious kid with absolutely no boundaries and way too much curiosity. He taught me the basics, introduced me to cooking shows, and gave me my first cookbook. Like, an actual cookbook, not a mommy blog. No shade or anything.”

Why is that so, insanely attractive?

Mentally, I curse myself for that dangerous, unprofessional thought. I will not be seduced by his culinary cunning. Strong words, I realize, about half an hour later when I take that first bite of eggs straight out of the pan, he sets on the kitchen island. I can’t help it, I most definitely moan. The level of creaminess is absurd.

“Be honest, you used some kind of magic on this, didn’t you? Some kind of water spirit voodoo.” I trace a circle around his face with the tip of my fork. “Fae magic?”

Max sucks bacon grease off a thumb. “Nope. Just good, high quality fat, salt, and a crap ton of patience.”

“I guess I’ll never be a great cook, then.” I shovel a massive bite into my mouth. “Patience is at the absolute bottom of my list of virtues, which is why I usually only eat food that is prepackaged.”

Laughing, Max rests his chin on a palm. “So those pork rinds you ate last night were typical fare?”

“You got it.” I click my tongue. “My family was, well, is, wealthier than the Fates. I grew up with a full house staff, so I never learned. And the cook was never jazzed about me being in his kitchen.”

Max’s lips draw back in a wince. “Shooed you out with a broom?”

“A cast iron skillet actually.”

“Harsh.”

“My parents believe that kind of thing is below our station.” I lift my eyes to the ceiling. “They have a lot of opinions on what jobs are befitting such noble creatures as phoenix.”

“I guess you never had to clean toilets, huh?”

“Not until I came to this realm,” I say around a mouthful of eggs. “It’s a whole thing.”

I glance at my watch, then swap out my fork for a massive spoon to better aid shoveling food. As much as I’d rather take it slow, savor the flavors, the texture, with sunrise coming quick, I need to speed things up. Besides, who knows the next time I’ll eat this good? If things go according to plan, I’ll be back in my apartment gnawing beef jerky by tomorrow night.

When I polish off the last of the eggs, Max whisks away both pans, and proceeds to clean them up without question. “You don’t have to do that,” I say around that last massive bite. “The guild will send somebody to sanitize after we vacate. Let’s get moving. The earlier we get to the bus station, the less people we’ll have to deal with.”

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