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

Flowing to his feet, Max takes the alcohol from me and twists the cap. When I reach for it, he pulls it back with a grin. “Before I give this to you, will you answer a question, mama?”

I growl at the back of my throat. “I’m only half broken, don’t test me, water spirit.”

“Do I get points for not waiting until you’re drunk to interrogate you?” Max’s grin widens. “Also, I saved your life.”

“I die every day; you didn’t save anything.”

Max crosses his arms.

My upper lip curls. “Fine. Ask away. I don’t promise to answer.”

Handing me the opened bottle, Max sits on the edge of the bed next to my knees. He doesn’t ask his question right away. I pause, waiting until the pain won’t allow it anymore, then down half the tequila. Pleasant warmth dulls some of the ache, casting a pleasant hum across my skin along with a healthy dose of light numbness.

Max jogs his leg. “When you died at the bus station, it didn’t break the spell.” He gestures to the cuff on his wrist. “My guess is you’re the only one who can do that?”

I drag my tongue along my lower lip, then take another sip. It’s a brazen question. I’ll give him that. Most bounties would definitely have waited for me to get drunk before even attempting to broach the subject. And I doubt seriously any of them would have saved me from that beating when the bus tire blew.

Then again ...

I narrow my eyes at him. “Is that why you saved me? Because you figured all busted up, I might be more likely to tell you how to get free? I can’t say I blame you. It’s a pretty smart strategy, but it’s not going to work. Like I said before, I don’t break contracts.”

A muscle twitches in Max’s face, the shadow of emotion he covers up quickly with another wide grin. “It was worth a shot to ask.” He shrugs. “Plus, I was pretty curious since you dying didn’t break the connection. That must be a pretty powerful spell.”

Eyes still narrow, I cough again, bloody droplets filling my mouth, then take another sip of tequila. Probably an unwise decision, but with multiple broken bones, I need something to numb the pain. “It took some trial and error, a lot of trial and error, but eventually I got it to work. I think I’m close to figuring out how to spell my bag and clothing too.”

“Are your parents spell casters?”

Carefully, I reach back to grab a pillow to stuff under my head. Fire wraps around my rib cage. The room sways and nausea undulates through me. As I breathe through the pain, the bed shifts slightly, then a hand helps nudge the soft pillow into place. I grind my teeth. If he’d just let me die in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this state.

“Thanks,” I say in a mumble, too tired and sick to wring him out again, much less think clearly. “And no. My parents obviously have their phoenix magic, but beyond that, they’ve never messed with spells.”

Max crisscrosses his legs and props his chin on a palm. “Any particular reason?”

I finish off my tequila, then dig around in my bag for another one. This time, I land on two bottles, and offer one — a Bacardi — to Max. Managing to unscrew mine with a thumb and pointer finger, I watch him stare at the label of his own drink for a moment, before opening it. He takes the barest minimum sip, eyes on something far off and invisible.

“They see it as ... low class, or whatever.” I blow a raspberry. “My mom would literally use the word bourgeois. They view our innate magic as pure. To them, using spells is something lesser magic users do. Like a crutch.”

Max grimaces. “They sound swell.”

My laugh turns almost immediately into another stupid, bloody cough. When it ends, I shake my head. “Need I say we don’t get along?”

“To complicated parental relationships.” Max holds up his drink.

We clink the bottoms of our bottles together, and both throw back a shot. Quiet settles as I sink into a new layer of numbness. Exhausted, I let my brain lean into the fuzz, choosing not to use any more brain power on practical things like next steps. My decision-making skills are highly compromised anyway. An hour or two of rest won’t kill me. Though if it does, this will solve a lot of my problems.

A ball forms in my throat. I douse it with the rest of the tequila, and shut my eyes, letting the alcohol burn through me before shoving my hand back into the backpack. I pull out a 9mm gun and hand it to Max.

“Do you know how to use one of these?”

Gray immediately clouds his skin as he stares at the weapon. “Why?”

“Because I can’t load it myself right now.” I dig around to find the magazine. “It’s stupid to wait until tomorrow. I’m going to need you to kill me now.”

6.

MAX DROPS THE GUN AND jumps off the bed. Without looking at me, he paces. Every time he has to turn around, he pauses to run a hand along the back of his neck. He mumbles in another language. On his third trip between the bathroom and outer door, he faces me, opens his mouth, then curses in English.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I groan. “Look. I know it feels crummy, but it’s not. You saw what happened with the bus. I came back in less than a minute without a scratch. Good as new.”

Max shoves both palms over his face. “Listen, mama. It might feel normal to you. It happens every day, so I don’t know, maybe you’re used to it. But I’m not. I don’t think I can kill anybody. Even if it is only temporary.”

“Dude.” I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. “I’ve got multiple broken bones, something is probably punctured internally, and unless I get real