Suzanne Johnson - Elysian Fields

“Doesn’t work that way. Once registered, always registered.” He held up a forearm sporting a tattoo of an N inside a pentacle inside a circle. “The only other necromancer I know of in this area is the new vampire Regent.”

I studied his tattoo. “This is some sort of tracking charm?” I knew necromantic wizards were required to register with the Elders, but hadn’t realized they were tracked.

“Yes. I could move anywhere in the world and they’d know about it. I wouldn’t have to reregister. Of course”—he leaned toward me in a show of conspiratorial Green Congress fellowship—“most necromancers don’t register. Unless they’re caught raising a body, who’s going to know?”

Holy crap. There could be necromancers living on every corner. I should have realized this. After all, I used elven magic all the time without the Elders knowing it.

“So why register at all?”

He smiled and leaned back. “Only registered necromancers get official jobs. I get called by the Elders to help with dispute cases—you know, when they need a corpse raised to answer a question or clarify a point. There’s money in it, although the Elders are tightwads. Most necromancers register so they can have an extra source of money. I love running this shop, but at least half my paltry income is from official necromantic jobs and I still can’t make ends meet.”

I’d bet my own paltry income that my salary wasn’t much more than his. I asked for Jonas’s whereabouts during the past two Axeman attacks, but he had ready answers and I didn’t pick up any unease coming from him. He could be good at shielding, of course, but I couldn’t think of a plausible reason he’d be summoning someone to kill me.

On the way out, Rene bought the sexual potency tonic, holding it up and grinning at me. “Just in case you change your mind,” he said, slipping the vial into his pocket.

If Jonas had had a Find the Hidden Necromancer tonic, I’d have bought a bottle myself.

***

A quick po-boy lunch and an hour drive to New Orleans East later, I parked the Pathfinder outside a back fence to Six Flags, figuring the front parking lot might be too high profile since the fire.

Adrian Hoffman sat on our same bench with his arms crossed, tapping a foot impatiently and staring at a series of targets lined up along the entrance to the Cajun Nation arcade. They looked like shooting range targets except they were made of metal instead of paper—steel or aluminum, maybe, in the shape of a person. He must’ve had the Elders’ handy-dandy supply house up all night packing and delivering those babies.

The building behind them was plain cinderblock, unadorned except for gang tags in varying degrees of obscenity. Fireproof. Adrian was prepared for me.

The sun still hadn’t made an appearance, and my nose grew numb in the cold, damp air. I did not want to be here, but learning to use the elven staff more effectively seemed like a good idea given my priority on the Axeman’s hit list.

Which I tried to explain to Adrian, without much success, when he wanted to know why I was ten minutes late. “He’s after me specifically,” I said. “Can’t the Elders help find the necromancer who’s controlling him? It has to be someone unregistered.”

“We have only the undead pirate’s word that there is even a necromancer involved, and I consider Jean Lafitte far from reliable.” Adrian brushed off a leaf that dared land on his camelcolored sweater, which had to be cashmere and perfectly matched his slacks.

“No, we have more than Jean Lafitte’s word for it.” I filled Adrian in on the summoning. “The Axeman admits someone’s trying to control him, and I’m his target.”

Adrian crossed his arms and studied me with a frown. “He gave you no more information on this wizard’s identity? Or why he’d want to kill you?”

“Nothing. Do you have any ideas?”

He shrugged. “Obviously, you’ve inherited your father’s talent for alienating people. I’d suggest you go through your list of enemies.”

What a jerk. “I’ll do that. Thanks for the suggestion.” I’d worn my Tulane sweatshirt because it was roomy enough to accommodate the latest in wizard weaponry. I’d adapted a Velcro-fastened belt of the type joggers used to stash money and keys so it would hold a variety of premade potions and charms. I’d loaded it with the Axeman in mind, but I might have to use it on Adrian.

Instead, I decided to try talking to him again. Adrian could help me if he’d drop some of his attitude. He was older and his skill set was different.

“Look, I’m the Axeman’s target, so this has gotten personal.” I told him about the numbers on the wall at the crime scenes and the trashing of my living room. The longer I talked, the deeper his frown etched into his features.

Adrian sat back on the bench, staring at the roller coaster. “You realize that if the Axeman was summoned by this necromancer while you had him in a circle, that means the necromantic wizard is more powerful than you.”

Yeah, well, thanks for pointing that out. “Unfortunately, yes, at least when it comes to necromancy versus summoning. Anyway, I’m at a dead end and thought you might have some ideas.”

Adrian shook his head. “This is outside my realm of expertise, but let me talk to someone at headquarters. Maybe we can come up with some ideas. In the meantime, the best thing you can do is learn to use your elven magic more effectively.”

I nodded and pulled Charlie out of my backpack. “Let’s do it.”

Adrian reached beside him for his briefcase, snapped it open with authority, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “First, I want to talk about the political structure of the elves and some of the skills you don’t seem to have.” He thrust half of the papers at me with a rattle.

Great. The Axeman wanted to slice my head open; Adrian wanted to make it explode with political minutiae. I looked at the top sheet on the stack and stifled an eye-roll. The man had made a freaking elven organ i zational chart.

“Terrific,” I said.

“And then you can practice with the staff.” He looked pointedly at the blackened, half-submerged hull of Jean Lafitte’s Pirate Ship. “Which you obviously need.”

“Obviously.”

“If you’ll refer to the first sheet, you’ll see the top hierarchy of the elves, along with the individuals who currently hold the seats of power.” It was official; he was going to bore me to death. Except when I took a grudging glance at the sheet I noticed the name at the top: MACE BANYAN, chief of the Elven Synod.

He was the one who wanted to meet with me so badly, the same one who’d popped up in 1850 New Orleans like an evil genie when I’d gone into the time-travel portion of Old Orleans for dinner with the pirate. Mace had touched me under the guise of shaking hands, and I would have been on the ground within seconds, my mind broken under a tidal wave of memories and images from my past, had it not been for Jean’s intervention. That elf had some serious skills.

“Who are these names below Mace Banyan, and why is his name on here twice?” I studied the org chart more closely.

“The elves are divided into four clans or tribes, according to their magical specialties.” Adrian warmed to the subject; he’d have made a good professor, much as I hated to admit it. “There has been little intermarriage between clans, as nearly as I can tell, so the bloodlines have remained remarkably pure.”

He held up his own chart, identical to mine except larger. We should have met at his apartment so he could have popped up a slide show. “Each of the clans represents one of the elements and has a clan chief. Mace Banyan, in addition to being head of the Synod, or ruling council, is also chief of the Awyr, or Elves of the Air. The other clans are the Ddaear, or Elves of the Earth; the Dwr, or Elves of the Water; and the Tân, or Elves of the Fire. I’ve heard they’re are smallest clan by far, but it’s rumor—the elves don’t advertise their politics.”