Suzanne Johnson - Elysian Fields

I pointed them to the chairs at a small round conference table, my curiosity piqued. I’d assumed Zrakovi wanted to talk about getting me a research assistant—he’d mentioned the possibility a couple of times before—or maybe he’d gotten wind of prete involvement in the Axeman Deux murders.

Hoffman’s presence confused me. Zrakovi had dragged him here for his dressing-down in front of me and Alex in my hospital room last month, but I hadn’t talked to him since. I’d thought the man rarely left Elder Central, aka Edinburgh.

Zrakovi took a cup of coffee, grimaced at the first sip, and politely refrained from commenting. Nobody shared my love of flavored coffees, which meant more for me. Hoffman sat to my left, stiff and expressionless.

“Let’s get to it then,” Zrakovi said, setting his cup on the table. “We need to discuss the elves.”

I stifled a groan. Freaking elves. I hadn’t considered that being the subject of his visit.

“I haven’t been using the staff,” I said. Not much, anyway. Just a couple of small fires easily contained, and a little char on Alex’s mantel. “Do the elves still want to meet with me? Oh, and can you think of any reason an elf or faery might be living in the city and masking his species?”

I had enough elven DNA to be claimed by Mahout, the ancient staff of the Fire Elves that I’d found in Gerry’s attic after Hurricane Katrina. He hadn’t been able to use it, but it ramped up my ability to do physical magic until I was the equal of a Red Congress wizard—well, a Red Congress wizard with poor control over her powers. It also quickly drew the attention of the elves, who had thought the revered relic no longer existed.

As soon as they figured out Mahout was the staff I had, they’d begun asking to meet with me. After Zrakovi consulted with the other Elders, he’d ruled that since the staff had claimed me, I had no obligation to return it. Yet they still wanted to talk.

“I’ve set up a meeting between you and the head of the Synod, Mace Banyan, the Monday after Thanksgiving.” Zrakovi picked up his coffee cup, frowned at it a moment, then set it back on the table. “I’ll be attending as well. We’ll discuss what limitations, if any, they want placed on your use of the staff, but frankly I’m not inclined to give them any concessions. It isn’t as if you’re chasing down elves with it.”

I hated Mace Banyan, whom I’d met only once. He had tried to scramble my brains when he caught me unawares during a dinner date with Jean Lafitte in the Beyond last month—at least it felt like brain-scrambling. I had no idea what he wanted, but I was sure only Jean’s threat of violence had gotten me away unscathed. Now I figured what he wanted was Mahout, aka Charlie.

Of course, this meeting might never take place. By the week after Thanksgiving, I could be ensconced in a locked ward in Ittoqqortoormiit—unless my combination of wizard, loup-garou, and elf DNA was determined too dangerous to live.

“Sure, where and when?” I might as well be optimistic about the wolf thing until I began sprouting whiskers.

“I suppose we could meet here”—Zrakovi glanced around at the bare walls—“although the ambience is a bit . . . generic. Maybe get someone to decorate for you if you aren’t inclined to do it yourself. Elves can be odd about their surroundings. Two p.m.”

Well, excuse me for having a life. “I’ve been kind of up to my neck in mermen lately, with no time to worry about office decor.” I kept my expression neutral, but a faint smirk crossed Adrian Hoffman’s lips. What was his role in this? “Will Mr. Hoffman be attending the meeting as well?”

“No, Adrian’s here for another reason.” Zrakovi beamed from Adrian and back to me, either oblivious to the tension between us or, more likely, willfully ignoring it. “He’s going to instruct you in elven magic and help you hone your use of the staff.”

Wha? No!

“Is he an elf?” I refused to look at the man. Instead, I addressed my question to Zrakovi in a calm manner at odds with my inner screaming banshee.

“Adrian did his master’s-levels in elven magic, which has made him a valuable consultant for the Elders, ” Zrakovi said. “He’s quite the expert. We’re lucky he’s available to teach you.”

“Yeah. Lucky.” I turned to Hoffman. At least now I knew how he’d made himself valuable to the Elders. “You’ll be staying in New Orleans for a while, then?”

He finally looked at me directly. “I leased a flat for a month. That should be sufficient time to give you the basics. You asked about an elf or faery hiding in the city—have you met one?”

Adrian seemed genuinely interested, and I guess if I’d studied for master’s levels on a species as elusive as the elves, it would be exciting to think one of them might be in our midst.

“I’m not sure. There’s a guy who moved into my neighborhood a month or two ago, and he’s wearing peridot jewelry that I was able to tell had been bespelled by a wizard—probably a black-market buy. So he’s hiding what he is.”

Now that I put it into words, the whole notion that this crunchy-granola nursery owner was an elf or faery in disguise sounded paranoid.

“Why would you think he was an elf? And how were you able to tell the jewels had been bespelled?” Adrian frowned at me, and Zrakovi leaned forward with interest.

“I can sense the energy that comes from people and objects. Each species gives off a slightly different energy signature.” This was not a wizard skill, and Adrian’s contempt for my ability to read auras was a major factor in the deaths last month. From the sour look on Adrian’s face, he hadn’t forgotten.

Zrakovi leaned back and gave me an assessing look. “Reading auras is an elven skill and is one of the reasons I wanted the two of you to work together to see what other abilities DJ has inherited. Adrian, I believe you’re going to find our DJ a very interesting student.”

Adrian locked his annoyed gaze with mine. “I’m sure.”

There was nothing I could do on the loup-garou front, so I spent the next few hours working on the Axeman case. I charted the latest two attacks, which both fit within the walkingdistance radius. But attacks four and five had come so soon after the third that I had to wonder if the Axeman had just killed on one big spree instead of coming back each time from the Beyond. He’d probably be strong enough by now to stay for long periods, and every kill would make him stronger as more people talked about him.

With Ken now willing to smooth the way, I walked each of the crime scenes, reaching out with my senses to see if I could again sense that bit of energy from a member of the historical undead. Nada. It didn’t hang around long enough.

Next, I went to the Historic New Orleans Collection and did some research on the Axeman I couldn’t get from the Internet. He had left clothing behind at a few of his original crime scenes, so Jake’s find was consistent with the original killer. The professor on TV had been wrong. What really made the Axeman’s latest spree different is that he’d grown more efficient at killing—several of his victims in 1918 had survived.

I’d discussed the Axeman case with Zrakovi and Adrian before they left, but thanks to my sort-of friendship with Jean Lafitte, I knew more about the historical undead than they did. Zrakovi planned to call a meeting with the nascent Interspecies Council and ordered the paperwork that would confine the Axeman within the Beyond for the rest of his miserable immortal life . . . once we’d caught him. But the Council had yet to decide how many votes each species got, or how the balance of power would break down. They could be tangled in bureaucracy forever.