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

I’m getting thrown off of said height. Because I don’t like that journey for me.” An accent not typically found in New Orleans spices his words, orchestrating in a sharp musicality similar to Spanish.

Not looking down, I lead him up to the roof, laughing in spite of myself. “That’s for the person who put the bounty on your head to decide. Which means until I get you to them, I’m highly motivated to keep you alive. Though I can make things unpleasant if you annoy me too much.”

As we clear the half cement wall, the building quivers again, and magic electrifies the air.

We both stumble. The mark loses his balance completely. I grab his shirt to keep him steady, glaring down into the alleyway at the witch below. So much for them not having my vibrations to scry on. Even when we get away, she’ll be able to gather some from the rooftop. We’ll have to move fast so we don’t leave much behind.

Readjusting my grip on the mark, I click my tongue. “Fair warning, this is going to be a little jarring.”

A wave of intense fire rips through me as my body morphs into phoenix form. The bounty lets out a funny little shout as blue-tipped wings sprout from my back, my clothes transform into burning feathers, and my arms hook into talons. Latching onto the mark’s shoulders, I streak into the sky, fast as a shooting star and as easily mistaken for one.

I land us in a nearby alley seconds later, taking a few running steps to steady myself after setting the mark down, and shaking from the effort of carrying someone. While in that form, I’m much more powerful but most assuredly not stronger. It’s colossally unfair.

The bounty stumbles into one of the brick walls, gasping, looking around wildly as confusion fully annihilates the arrogant smile on his pretty face. “What...” He points at the sky. “We ...” He points at me. “We ... you can fly?”

I slide out a pack of cigarettes and light one up. “When the situation demands it. Transporting a passenger means I can’t go very far, though, so don’t expect that kind of service often. We’ll be walking most of the way.”

Clocking the rooftop we left behind, I study the building a moment before dismissing it, then march back onto Bourbon Street. The bounty jogs to keep up when the cuff’s magic tugs at him. We dodge a pair of sloppy drunk women flashing other people for beads. Young or old, in the presence of cops or nuns, it doesn’t particularly matter around here. So long as you stick within the well-understood boundaries, this kind of behavior is completely acceptable.

It would offend my parents’ delicate nerves.

“And where are we going exactly?” the kid asks, raising his voice above the din and weaving around a small pile of discarded beer cans.

I take a slow drag off my cigarette. “Tonight? A second safe house just outside of Bourbon Street. There’s no reason to try and make it out of the city this late.”

I cross the street to avoid passing too close to a voodoo shop. Of all the magic innate to this realm, that heavy, oppressive brand of hexes and curses scares me the most. I’ve had enough of that to last an eternity, which I might very well have if I can’t break the spell locking me in this never-ending cycle. Besides, those shrunken heads ruin my appetite.

Every few blocks, I glance over my shoulder, feel out the magic in the air. With the odd collision of Catholicism and pagan practices, New Orleans boils with intense spiritual ripples unlike anything I ever encountered in the fae realm. The two forces intermingle in such a way to fully confound my senses. Not to mention what they often do to technology.

I ignore them if at all possible.

Heat and humidity stick my t-shirt to my back as we pass St. Louis Cathedral, a massive white building I eye with as much suspicion as I do the voodoo shops. A different kind of power — I can’t rightly call it magic — beams out from its walls. Spotlight bright, and just as exposing, I keep to the shadows whenever I’m forced to take this route.

The mark mumbles something under his breath that almost sounds like the prayers I hear Hank whisper sometimes. Its familiar rhythm soothes my nerves. As I take the next corner, I flick ash off my cigarette, and hook a thumb into one loop of my bag.

“Religious type?” I ask.

It’s foolish to get to know too much about a bounty, but if we’re going to be stuck together for a few days, I’d rather have a little conversation than stilted silence.

“My friend Ash is,” the mark says. “I figure if a guy like him trusts it, then it’s got to be at least a little trustworthy. Who better to go to for help than a god?”

Kicking the ground with the heels of my shoes, I glance back at the church, steeling my muscles against a shiver of discomfort. It’s a nice thought. If, and only if, such a deity is just and good. In my experience, unlimited power usually rots beings — magic and non-magic alike —from the inside.

“What about you?” the mark asks. “Any faith to speak of?”

“I have faith in one thing,” I say. “And that’s sticking to the contract.”

I pause at a wrought iron fence blocking off an alleyway, stomping out my cigarette and fishing a key out of my pocket. To the unknowing eye, this plot looks like a graveyard completely with above ground tombs, their stone carved with intricate designs. On the other side of the charm, however, I know we’ll find a cozy little house Yaritza and other hunters keep stocked for emergency situations.

Murmuring a spell, I uncover the lock in the center of the black gate. Some paranormals rely only on their magic to seal off entrances to secret places. I prefer multiple barriers to protect the