Free Burnt Sugar by Lish McBride

“Are you sure you’re reading that correctly?” I leaned my elbows on the car hood and stared at the hand-drawn map Lock had spread over the hood, his bottle of Moxie acting as an anchor. As homemade maps went, it wasn’t the best I’d ever seen. It relied heavily on landmarks and pirate-style directions like “twenty paces past the gnarled oak that looks like a naked old man.”
    â€œYes,” Lock said, “I’m sure.” He stared at the drawing, as if he could glean more information from it just by furrowing his brow. Ezra wasn’t even looking at the map. He was sprawled on the car hood next to it, his sunglasses on and his belly to the sun. Like this, it was all too easy to imagine him in his other form, his kohl-lined eyes closed and his little black booted fox feet pointed to the sky.
    Despite the heat, Lock and I both had light jackets on over our tank tops. Jackets have pockets, which is handy for people like us. His was full of seeds, because Lock is half-dryad and his magic is definitely of the nature spirit variety. I guess you could say mine is kind of natural too—forest fires are a part of nature, right? They clear the undergrowth and return nutrients to the soil. I’ve tried to tell Lock that, but he says the trees aren’t buying it. So when we have an assignment that takes us into the woods, Lock takes the lead. Okay, Lock tends to take the lead anyway. Mostly because he’s the organized kind who thinks things through while Ezra and I are more by-the-seat-of-our-pants hot mess kind of situations.
    So while Lock has seeds, my pockets are filled with things like electrolyte pills, granola bars, emergency cash, and a pocket knife. Everything a young firebug like myself needs.
    â€œOkay,” Lock said, folding up the map and tucking it into his pocket. “I think I have it.” I double-checked my own pockets, making sure I had everything, my fingers automatically tracing the stitching along my cuffs. To the untrained eye, it looked like brightly-colored embroidery. To a witch or anyone who knew a thing or two about rune magic, my jacket was clearly warded. My jeans pockets had the same stitching. I have this embarrassing habit of setting my own clothes on fire when I’m not careful. I’m no prude, but all it takes is one scorched pair of trousers before you learn your lesson about such precautions.
    While we readied ourselves, Ezra continued to sprawl like a model out of a teen magazine. Here’s the thing about Ezra Sagishi—he’s ridiculously good-looking, and he knows it. Between being a fox and being Asian, he sticks out in rural Maine. When you factor in the rest—whiskey-colored eyes, black hair with russet tones, cheekbones that would make a master sculptor throw away his tools in despair, and a perfect physique—the phrase “like a sore thumb” comes to mind. And while you’re drinking all that beauty in? He’ll pick your pocket. Foxes aren’t the best with concepts like “personal property.”
    â€œC’mon,” I said, pulling on his pant leg. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can go back to getting your beauty sleep.”
    Ezra popped his sunglasses up to look at me. “Are you implying that I would need something as pedestrian as beauty sleep?”
    Lock grabbed his other leg and yanked hard, dragging Ezra off the car and onto the ground.
    â€œHow pretty do you think you’re going to be if we don’t finish this job on time, hmm?” With that reminder, our good moods vanished. Ezra became all business and we followed Lock into the woods.
    We don’t have what I would refer to as normal jobs. Not unless you consider extortion and murder “normal.” Lock and Ezra are tithed to the Coterie, a supernatural mafia run by a vampire named Venus. I know these days vampires have a different reputation—sexy, misunderstood creatures just