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

made of solid stone with skin so hard he had to have his tattoos magically applied. He can take care of himself.

My guts don’t listen to this logic. Instead, they twist themselves into nasty little knots. I breathe slowly through it, pressing a palm to the space between my hips as other scenarios fill my mind. While Hank is a tank, the other staff at Guidry’s are much more vulnerable. He’d do anything to protect them. Especially Sam.

The idea of anyone hurting that poor kid stokes rage in my chest and fogs my brain.

“How about this,” Max says, his words slurring slightly, head propped on one hand. “Turn on the.... the ... thingy. Phone, that’s the one. Make sure the ... GPS is off, check the article Hank sent, then we’ll ditch it.”

Still pacing, I lace my fingers at the back of my neck. “Right. You’re right. Yaritza still might be trying to duck the Amazons, so even if Iris tried to contact her, we probably still have time before she can catch up. Plus, Hank might’ve sent another text.”

When the screen comes to life, those knots in my belly tighten. About one billion texts and voicemails from Yaritza pop up. None from Hank. I rub my chest, attempting not to spiral, and reminding myself to do the next thing. Clearing everything from Yaritza, I turn off the GPS, pull up the article Hank sent, then go back to pacing. As I read, I grab Max’s empty glass, fill it again, then push it back into his hand.

“This says that Joel met your mom at the culinary school where he used to teach.” Reaching the nightstand, I turn on a heel. “She came in for one of the community classes he offered for free on the weekends. He disappeared with her a week after that. That was the last time he was seen ... and the last time Iris reported hearing from him.” I look up at Max. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he squeezes his eyes shut. “I was fourteen, so, about four years ago, I think?”

“Okay.” I turn at the edge of the bed and walk back toward the nightstand. “Okay. Okay, so you were all still in Piracicaba?”

“We were just getting ready to leave.” Max cradles his glass in both hands. “It had been like, two days since Joel left, or...” His nostrils flare. “You know. And my mom comes in talking about how it’s time for a change of scene. Just like she always did when she broke up with a guy. I lost it. Yelled at her for the first time ever. Told her I was sick of moving, of never staying in one place. She told me I was being childish, and things went downhill from there. So, I took off the next day and I haven’t seen her since.”

Tapping the power button, I lock the cell — unable to decide whether to turn it off or not — and slump onto the edge of the bed. “How long did she usually keep guys around? I mean, was there a pattern? Did some seem to ... deplete faster than others? Or ...”

Max slides down the chair a little further so his chin rests on his chest. “It kind of depended on the guy. She kept Joel around longest. She liked him a lot. And I didn’t notice ... I should have noticed ... should have done something ...” His words drag, and his head dips, barely kept upright by his hand.

Lips pursed, I flick a strand of hair out of my face. He needs to rest. Clearly that travel took it out of him badly. I’m not going to get much more out of him until he does. Straightening, I squeeze his shoulder. Max squints up at me with black blood shot eyes and attempts a weak smile.

“Let’s get you to bed. I can’t have you dying on me.” I smirk, then slide an arm under his, hauling him to his feet with an oof. “Not immediately after I saved your life.”

Max huffs a laugh through his nose. “I don’t know, that might actually solve all your problems, mama.”

A weight drops on my gut as Max’s words stoke panic inside me. I try to tamp it down, but it flickers and crackles like raging flames licking up dry kindling. How did I get here so quickly? How did I shift from wanting to know nothing, to caring so deeply about whether he lives or dies?

Guts still tangling, I help Max shuffle to the bed, then ease him down into it. Kicking off his shoes, he scoots back to try and get under the sheets. As he settles, I refill his glass again, leaving it on the nightstand at his side. Max wriggles out of his jeans and lets them flop to the floor — confirming he is not, in fact, wearing a thong — then rolls onto his side.

I stand awkwardly at the edge of the bed, extending my fingers, then curling them back into my palm. Nervous sweat needles the space between my shoulders and my face heats as I sway between my feet like a scrying spell stone.

“Do you, uh, need anything to eat?” Taking care of others is definitely not my strong suit, but offering food feels right.

It’s what Hank would do.

Tucking an arm under the pillow, eyes still hooded with heavy lids, Max wrinkles his nose. “I probably should. Though maybe not that beef jerky you got stashed in your bag. Unless you really want to see me puke all over this lovely motel carpet.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I think I saw a vending machine at the end of the hall. It probably has crackers or something.” I manage a smile, then unchain the door, and peek out.

Seeing the coast clear, I shuffle out in search of food, and try not to think about the life altering decision I just