Cursed: Out of Ash and Flame

piercing so it flashes. “Fee. Early with your bounty as always. You never cease to impress.”
I rest an elbow on the mark’s shoulder. He squirms, but with my magical command, can’t do much else. “Just slide that money on over into my account and he’s yours, yours, all yours.”
The club owner traces the rim of her martini glass with a middle finger. “About that price.”
Internally, I flip her the bird as the human saying goes. Strange phrase. An apt one though. Externally, however, I keep on my most professional expression. Slowly, I pull a pack of cigarettes from a mesh pocket on my bag, light one up, and blow out a slow stream of smoke before I respond.
“Louisiana guild standard. If you’re unhappy with it, take it up with Yaritza. Or, if you need to think about it, I can store our friend in a safe place for a while.” I pat him hard on the chest. “Personally though, debating price with Yaritza isn’t something I’d attempt. Bad odds.”
Tavia runs her tongue across her teeth. “You’re cursed to die every day, yes?”
“At midnight if I’m not killed. You got it. Like ... what is that story? Cinderella. Except instead of turning into a pumpkin, I burst into flame, turn to ash, then spring forth to do it all over again.” I cross one ankle over the other, tracking everyone around me as I lean more of my weight into the mark. “It tends to be inconvenient in terms of wardrobe, but I manage.”
“Fascinating.” Tavia sips her drink. “What might happen if you’re killed twice in a day?”
I blow an obnoxiously loud raspberry. “Your bill would go up because I’d definitely charge you for a new outfit. And don’t think cutting off my arm will short circuit our cuffs. If that happens, the mark goes up in flames. Which may work out for you if you plan to kill him, but somehow, I doubt that would be quite as satisfying as whatever you have planned. Then you’d have to deal with Yaritza, and as I said, I doubt very seriously you want that.”
Carefully, slowly, Tavia taps her knee with each finger of her free hand. The stupidly pretty paranormals around her don’t watch outright, but their eyes slide in her direction even as they pretend to focus on other things.
One of the men — a pixie based on his pointed features and faint, moonlike glow — slides a hand into the pocket of his jacket. Magic sparks through the air like static electricity. Taking a long drag from my cigarette, I feign a yawn, ready to use vampire boy as a shield. I’ve died twice in one day before. The second time is always worse so I’m in no rush to do it again.
Tavia snaps, and the air calms. “You have an excellent point, Fee. No reason to get Yaritza involved.”
She slips her cell phone off the table next to her, swiping the screen with a thumb, then holding it up for me to see. Mine buzzes in one of the mesh pouches on my bag as her money slips into my account with a happy little ding.
“Lovely. I’ll disconnect from our friend here once I’m nice and safe and out of range. Enjoy your evening.” With a final wink, I slap the newbie vamp on his backside and saunter back toward the stairs.
On the sidewalk below, soaked once again with humidity and cigarette smoke, I press my fingers into my tattoo and mutter a few words, officially leaving my bounty to Tavia and whatever fate she has planned for him.
COMPARED TO TAVIA’S club, Guidry’s is downright tranquil. A bar on the farthest edge of Bourbon Street, it conveniently butts up against the studio apartment I call home, and typically serves me drinks even though according to human rules, I’m not old enough to partake in alcohol.
Silly humans. Silly restrictions. No logic behind them. In the fae realm, children drink at their parents’ tables and buy their own liquor once they turn seventeen.
When I shove open the heavy wood front door, the gargoyle bartender, Hank Theriot, immediately retrieves a bottle of Corralejo Tequila from the shelf. Even his bushy beard can’t hide the grimace twisting his mouth. Though I die every day, something about me getting killed on the job disturbs him, bothers his big brotherly tendencies. His concern warms me right down to my tippy toes.
I weave between the black painted tables toward the bar. Guests here speak in much quieter tones, though some wear brightly colored beads, sparkle with glitter, and slur a bit. No bachelorette parties in sight. And no shouting either, thank the Fates. Only soft acoustic guitar music from a young woman on the small stage in the corner.
Paranormals move about with ease, relying on the general inebriation and weirdness that characterizes Bourbon Street for cover. Sam — Hank’s sort of adopted son, occasional bar hop, and full-time werewolf — gives me a sunny smile before hauling a plastic tub onto a shoulder.
Most in our world feel a particular way about werewolves. Not only is their condition difficult to control, but they’re not natural born paranormals. My parents in particular loathe their kind, which puts me of a mind to approve of them in general. Also, I’d have to be a horrible creature to hate a sweetheart like Sam, whose gentle spirit stands in sharp contrast to the violent wolf living inside him.
Hip checking him, I give him a wink. “Busy dinner rush, buddy?”
“Healthy flow,” Sam says, setting down his load on the next deserted table. “Are you in for the night? I saved you some etouffee. And I fixed your shower head. Let me know if it starts leaking again.”
“You’re a doll.” I kiss one of the scars on his cheek. “But keep that etouffee for yourself. You need it more than I do.”
Sam huffs as if annoyed but fails to cover up either his smile or the lovely blush that warms his