Spicy Little Curses

by J.T. Geissinger

As a proud lifelong cynic, I was looking forward to writing about the true horror of it all: overpriced cocktails and tourists who thought wearing Mardi Gras beads in October was acceptable behavior.

Unfortunately, I’m a sucker for the tall, dark, and devilish type. The more red flags and pitchforks they’re waving, the better.

In the split second when our gazes first met, I felt a jolt of recognition, like déjà vu. Something I wasn’t supposed to feel for a stranger.

If there’s one thing I really hate, it’s when someone underestimates my intelligence. Especially when that someone is male and inconveniently hot.

Because when I looked back up at Dax, the ink on his arms shifted. As if, under his skin, it was alive.

What’s your cat’s name?” “Luce.” “As in Lucy?” “No, as in Lucifer. Don’t pet her, she’s allergic to people. And I do mind. Like I said, Petra, we’re closed.”

I’d been seeing her in my dreams for months. Not that I was about to fucking tell her that.

A new line of ink, bold, fresh, and burning white-hot like a brand, had appeared on the inside of my wrist. It was her name. And I knew without a doubt that this woman who walked out of my dreams and into my shop on a rainy October night was always meant to show up. Because, somehow, she was part of the curse too.

It’s a time-tested truth that the best-looking men are always the absolute worst.

“Oh no, a mysterious family curse! How original. Do you turn into a werewolf under a full moon? Or maybe your great-great-grandfather made a deal with a swamp witch?”

Why couldn’t Dax Rousseau be a hunched-over ninety-year-old with a leaky bladder and deadly halitosis? Why did my first brush with the supernatural have to be so handsome? So muscular?

Oh, except for the fun fact that any woman who fell in love with a Rousseau man was doomed to a tragic death. So that was perfect. Nothing says “great idea” like falling for a man who might be my own personal grim reaper.

“What you’re asking for, smart-ass, is a spanking.” A jolt of lust rocked my body. Wide-eyed and breathless, my heart pounding, I stared at him. Spanking? Yes, that sounded like an excellent idea.

“You’re nothing but a pip-squeak with a big mouth and a bad attitude, like a Chihuahua.”

“Coming from a guy who keeps the furry embodiment of Satan as a pet, it’s hardly a diss anyway. Are you going to let go of me now, or do I need to introduce my knee to your testicles?”

She tasted like sweet dreams and bad decisions. And I was already in too deep.

“You don’t know me, but I’m as stubborn as a drunk goat on a narrow bridge.”

“Cut me some slack! This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me. Which is saying something, considering I once accidentally joined a cult because they had really good tacos.”

“You. Me. The furry demon in my arms. It’s fate, Sunshine. So you have to tell me about the curse, because fate always wins, whether you like it or not.”

The only thing worse than a smart-ass woman was a smart-ass woman who was right.

“Who fall in love with a Rousseau man.”

“Just like I don’t believe in the Loch Ness Monster, I don’t believe in love, okay? It’s a fairy tale. What people call romantic love is just hormones. It doesn’t exist.”

“From then on, every male descendant of Matthias has been born with tattoos—the same ones he bore on his own skin—as a mark of their curse. And every woman who has loved a male of our bloodline has been taken as payment.”

“You don’t yet know what you are, but I recognize you. So does the curse. You must be careful now, child. The enemy draws near.” 48 She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. “Kill the tattooed devil before he kills you!”

Unless you’re talking about the ungodly amount of carnitas platters I’ve murdered in my lifetime, because if we’re counting those, I’m a serial killer.”

“Okay, with all due respect? You’re being way too cryptic. Explain it to me like I’m a toddler. How do we break the curse? Specifically. Is there a saying? Abracadabra, something like that? Is there a ritual? A spell? A shady notary that signs off on curse removals?”

For fuck’s sake. These ominous one-liners were really starting to chap my ass.

I’m no genius, but I knew bitch-slapping a famous, powerful medium was a bad idea, so I kept politely prodding her.

So that was the famous medium Celeste Leclair. Could’ve happily gone my entire lifetime without that weird-ass meeting.

There was no going back now. I’d kill to protect her.

I stared at him. “It must be such a relief to be so unburdened by logic.” “That’s the most passive-aggressive thing I’ve ever heard.”

It figured I’d fall for a witch. My taste in women always ran toward the feral ones.

The curse could kill me . . . or I could kill Dax.

Dax’s greedy ancestor, cursed not only for his descendants to wear the marks of his sins and lose the women they loved in tragedy, but to be the one who came to collect their souls himself.