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

Calm down, brother, I think. He wants you to lash out. But we’re not that dumb, right? Right. Let’s get it together.

Gulping down air, I wait until the flurry of movement inside me chills back to a restless pace, then finish unloading and follow Arthur into the restaurant again. The dinner rush picks up, distracting me completely from the fidgety animal begging for freedom. At the end of the night, I finish up the dishes, cash out, then duck out the back door.

Halfway down the street, the scrape of a shoe on concrete followed by a derisive laugh triggers an immediate growl from the wolf and shoots sharp prickles up the back of my neck. Nervous energy hums through every nerve. Not much can hurt me — not with werewolf magic ready to go off at any clear threat — but I can’t stomach the thought of setting off the wolf.

Senses on high alert, I keep walking. Arthur steps onto the sidewalk in front of me. Fear rockets through my body as the wolf growls. I backpedal a few steps, looking for a way out, anything to avoid a conflict at all costs.

“So, you talk to it huh, freak?” Arthur’s upper lip curls in disgust.

With no other options, I hook to my left, jogging across the street at least a block away from the crosswalk. This irks me more than is reasonable, but breaking a tiny law is better than tearing into an obnoxious waiter. No matter how fast he’d heal from that kind of attack, I don’t much like the idea of exacerbating the bad blood between us.

He shouts after me. “It’s bad enough working with a monster. But having a crazy one around is even worse.”

The wolf’s growl rips into a snarl, begging me to turn right back around and pounce. I pick up my pace as the sound of a newly released wave of traffic roars behind me. Hopefully, this cut Arthur off so he can’t follow. I risk a glance back over my shoulder. A fist blindsides me, connecting with my temple and knocking me off balance.

Magic builds under my skin as the wolf begs me to let him out. I regain my footing, clinging to control with every ounce of strength, barely able to hear Arthur’s rant over the ringing in my ears. Another shove sends me into a brick wall and a very inhuman growl rolls up my throat.

Arthur grabs the collar of my shirt and slams a fist into my ribs. “You put us all in danger. It’s paranormals like that make things worse for the rest of us. You’re the reason some of the Tribunal doesn’t want to go public to the humans.”

His fangs elongate with his fury. I eye them cautiously. This attack is dangerous enough. If he draws blood, I know I won’t be able to keep the wolf from fighting back, defending itself. The best thing I can do is attempt to de-escalate or, at bare minimum, get away from him.

“You’re not exactly helping the situation, friend.”

I barely manage to steady my voice. Power wells up inside me, the wolf absolutely furious at this challenge. In human form, I have a better rein on him, but with Arthur in my face, putting hands on me and flashing those pointed teeth, this might not last long. I need to get away from him, and fast.

The vampire gives me a violent shake. “Hank says you’ve got control,” he slugs me in the stomach again, “but how long before your grip slips? How long before you kill somebody?”

That ever-present dread wraps around my throat, but I manage to keep my expression passive as I choke out a warning. “You rilin’ up the wolf isn’t going to make that scenario any less likely. Now back off.”

Harnessing a small rush of the magic thrumming through my body, I force Arthur away with a heavy shove, then wheel around and break into a full out sprint. I don’t slow down until I reach the fifth-floor apartment I share with Hank. Gasping, I jog up the metal stairs on the side of the gray brick building.

The perch — as Hank calls it — overlooks Bourbon Street and a pretty good chunk of the streets around it, the perfect place for a gargoyle to watch over the folks who live around here. His keen senses miss very little. Without it around, worry grates at me constantly.

Inside, I grab a sandwich from the fridge, then jog up to the roof. Mouthful of bread and corned beef, I pause in the doorway to stare down the long black shed in the far corner covered in a sliver of moonlight. I won’t need it tonight. Not its chains or locks or straps. But that doesn’t stop a shiver from running through me even as I march to the set of lawn chairs a few feet to its right.

The wolf snarls.

“Calm down, brother,” I say. “Soon as I’m done eating, I’ll let you out. Just got to be a little patient.”

AS PROMISED, I LET the wolf out after I’ve eaten. I steer him away from populated areas and toward the Couturie Forest where we might blend in with other wild animals. On nights without a full moon, I have more control, a better grip on the reigns than normal. I also find that talking to him on the regular encourages him to listen to my command.

We sprint from shadow to shadow, listening for footsteps or voices or any other form of distinctly human movement. I’ll let him nosh on birds and rabbits all he wants, maybe even an opossum in a pinch, but people are off the menu.

He grumbles about it but leaves it at that.

Halfway to the forest, a hissed curse cuts through the quiet of the evening. I pull us up short behind a cluster of thick bushes on a street corner. The wolf growls quietly at the