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

A few exits later, I turn off the road into a restaurant that looks promising, not sure I’m going to be able to keep anything down. Except maybe a shot of tequila.

Unfortunately, I have to drive.

We order from a kid with a lip ring and fake nails I’d never be able to navigate, then take our electric buzzer to a booth in the far corner by the window. I jog my knee under the table. The seat vibrates, but before I whip out my phone to check for a text, a pickup turns the corner, its pounding base the source of the faint movement.

I pull apart my straw wrapper with much more violence than strictly necessary.

“Everything okay, mama?” Max asks again.

“You’re asking me that?” I meet his eyes.

He’s already drained his cup of water and now crunches the left-over ice. “You seem jumpy.” Max scoots forward. “Did you see a rival bounty hunter following us? Or that woman from the bus?”

Massaging a throbbing spot just under my left brow, I shake my head. “No. It’s nothing. It’s just been a long two days. Forty-eight hours. Whatever.”

And I just found out my respawns are limited. Inwardly, I shiver.

“You’re not wrong,” Max says.

Our food arrives. In spite of the nausea, I choke most of the burger down. It turns to paste in my mouth. I don’t even attempt the curly fries. My gaze wanders the restaurant, and my imagination amplifies every glance in my direction, adds a heavy layer of suspicion to every look. When we’re finished, Max refills his water, and stops by the bathroom.

While he’s gone, I type out a text to Iris Smith with shaking fingers to let her know we’re close. I stare at the words. If I delay, I might hear back from Hank before we even make it to Memphis. But if I delay, a rival hunter might catch up to us, and I do not want to deal with another attack.

Heart in my throat, I hit send. Without greeting or any other form of small talk, Iris sends me the address of where we’re supposed to meet and signs off with a warning to “be prompt.”

Back in the car, the burger churns in my gut. Mile after mile passes far more quickly than I’d like. Without meaning to, I ease a little off the gas, pulse growing louder in my ears as we near Memphis. My damp palms slide on the steering wheel.

Fifty minutes.

It’s not my business.

Forty-five minutes.

Come on Hank. Text me back.

Thirty minutes. Buildings rise up out of the tree line. Max’s hands ball into fists in his lap, veins springing out along his arms.

I need to preserve the contract, or I’ll get kicked out of the guild. Even worse, Iris Smith won’t help me with this stupid curse.

Twenty minutes. I slow down on the city roads, sticking to the speed limit, sometimes even falling below it, grateful for every red light.

What if he’s innocent?

Fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes and two more corners. Sweat soaks my lower back as I take the next turn and approach the address Iris sent me. My foot lets up on the gas a little more. My eyes zone in on a woman with platinum blonde hair standing on the street. I’ve only seen pictures of Iris Smith — moving photos in The Tribunal Times — but she’s even more stunning in real life.

Five minutes.

I pull to a stop in front of Iris. Breath solid in my chest, I peel my hands off the steering wheel and grab my still silent cell. “When we get out of the car, stay behind me, and don’t say a word,” I say, not looking at Max.

He grunts quietly, opening his door when I do, silent and pale. Out on the sidewalk, I put myself between him and Iris.

Face neutral, I loop my arms across my chest, willing my phone to buzz. “Ms. Smith?”

Iris zeroes her attention entirely on Max, a narrow, hard look. “Is this him?”

I fight to keep my shoulders from inching toward my ears. “This is Max Avila. Delivered as promised. I’ll hand him over once the funds are transferred to Yaritza.”

A ball forms in my throat as Iris slides her cell out of the pocket of her business jacket. “Small price to pay for a touch of justice,” she says under her breath.

My phone buzzes.

Heart slamming against my sternum, I tilt it in time to see a message from Hank light up the screen. Head swimming, I swipe it open quickly.

Hank: Iris Smith had an older brother named Joel who disappeared about six years ago a few months after starting a relationship with known water spirit, Aline Avila. There is a bounty out on her as well. No one’s been able to fill it. More details in the article.

A web link pops up after the text, but there’s no time to read it. The name Joel lights up my brain. Where have I heard that name before? I shake my head, thoughts muddled, racing. They screech to a halt when realization hits me.

The man who taught Max to cook.

“One moment,” I blurt out.

Iris’ flame blue eyes finally dart to my face. “Tell me you’re not about to negotiate terms. I’ve been waiting for far too long for any more delays.”

“It’s not that.” I turn to Max, pulling him a few feet away from Iris by the elbow, and throw up a shield spell with as much subtlety as possible. “Be honest with me. Have you ever used your magic for personal gain? Not saving your life, but for straight up, selfish pleasure.”

Max crosses his arms over his chest, gaze coasting back toward Iris. Her lips thin out into a thin, red slash of a line, but she doesn’t move from her spot as he says, “Sure. I used it to get out of trouble in school, to make a sell at my job ... and I’ll admit, I’ve used it to get out of a speeding ticket or two—”

“You know