Suzanne Johnson - Elysian Fields

The crack in the plaster ceiling began next to the base of the light fixture and zigzagged a path to the corner of the room. I studied the lightning-bolt pattern, wondering how much pressure would be needed before the crack became a crevice and the whole ceiling came tumbling down on some unsuspecting fool’s head.

I had no idea how long I’d lain on the bed in the vacant apartment across from Jake’s on the second floor of the Green Gator, staring at the potential ceiling disaster hanging overhead. The symbolism didn’t escape me.

Finally, I rolled to my feet, clutched my ribs, and walked to the bathroom with Jake’s bottle of Four Roses that I’d brought upstairs. I took a sip, coughed at the burn, and took another. Then I walked to the sink, used the rest of the bourbon to clean the scratch on my arm, and tossed the empty bottle in the trash.

Alcohol wouldn’t kill the virulent loup-garou strain of lycanthropy, but the pain it caused on the open wound awoke my brain from its fugue. No point in freaking out; too many variables were unknown. When I had answers, I’d panic.

I had no idea if a wizard had ever become loup-garou. As a natural shapeshifter, Alex was immune—he’d been attacked by the same loup- garou as Jake. Ditto for Jean Lafitte. If shapeshifters and the historical undead were immune, perhaps wizards were too. Or maybe my elven DNA would protect me.

Otherwise . . . Otherwise was a horror show. How would it feel to change form? Would the Elders consider me too dangerous to live if I shifted into an uncontrollable wolf who could do magic?

They’d taken a chance on Jake because he’d been human when he was turned—and because Alex pled his case and agreed to be held responsible for his cousin’s actions. Jake didn’t know that. Take my elven skills, which already made the Elders nervous, and make me a rogue wolf who could absorb the negative emotions of others? They’d either turn me into a weapon or put me down like a rabid stray.

Part of me was worried about Jake. Part of me cared where he’d gone and how this would tear him apart. Part of me was concerned that he was probably driving around drunk and upset. On some level I made note of those things, but mostly I felt all my fretting over Jake the last few years had been wasted time. We’d still come to this.

Leyla wouldn’t arrive for at least another half hour, and I didn’t want to explain why I was here and Jake wasn’t. She was used to opening up, so I put the key to the apartment back under Jake’s mat, left her a note that Jake might not be coming in, made sure the front door of the bar was locked, wrapped a clean towel around my arm, and exited the back, which had a door that would lock behind me. A tiny courtyard served mostly to store big green trash cans on wheels and give delivery drivers a way to get to the kitchen without having to walk through the bar.

The long, narrow alley between the Gator and the adjacent building could induce claustrophobia on the best of days. By the time I emerged into the gloom of the open street, hyperventilation was imminent. I walked to where I’d parked my SUV around the corner from the Gator and drove home on autopilot, my thoughts a swirl of blood-covered axes and loup- garou scenarios.

Two vehicles were parked behind my house in the small lot I shared with my new neighbor: a spotless black Mercedes convertible and a big, beefy black Range Rover. Alex, who was now a two-vehicle house hold all by himself, had moved into the little green shotgun next door to me last month.

Jake wasn’t the only chicken in town; I wasn’t ready to face Alex.

Instead, I eased my Pathfinder’s door shut with a soft click and hurried to my back entrance. Sebastian, the chocolate Siamese I’d inherited from my father, lay in wait, ready to trip me when I walked inside. It was his hobby. When I stopped and leaned over to pet him, he meowed at me suspiciously and streaked out of the kitchen.

Nothing like an affectionate, welcoming pet to make a girl feel loved.

Upstairs, I cleaned the small cut again and wrapped it in a bandage, reflecting on the overflowing medicine cabinet in my bathroom. Before Hurricane Katrina had turned New Orleans into what was arguably the world’s most active prete hotspot, I’d never taken so much as an aspirin or had a sprained ankle. Now I had tape for my ribs, glue and ban dages for cuts, instant ice packs, painkillers . . . and the borders between the modern city and the Beyond had officially been down only a few weeks.

The cut burned and throbbed, and I could imagine my body beginning to change in an explosion of morphing cells and re- spooling DNA. This tiny wound should already be covered with a Band- Aid and forgotten, but instead my arm felt heavy and alien. How much was mental, and how much physical? There were no answers, only an avalanche of questions.

I stretched out on my bed, curling up under my grandmother’s old-fashioned patchwork quilt that doubled as my bedspread, the elven staff in its usual spot poking out of a deep vase on my nightstand. Some people slept with teddy bears or pets. I had Charlie, an ancient stick of wood the elves called Mahout.

My muscles ached from the stress of being up all night, the crime scene, and the disaster with Jake. I needed sleep, but my brain writhed with useless what- ifs.

What if I’d walked out when Jake became argumentative? That might make me a bad friend, but it would have been a smarter thing to do. Why did I have to try and fi x everything?

What if I’d come home and simply reported Jake’s drinking to Alex, letting him deal with the situation? He loved Jake, no matter how much they fought. But Alex saw life in black and white, and Jake’s current world was painted in shades of gray. I found it comfortable living in a world without absolutes, but it drove Alex crazy. I’d have done neither of them any favors by ratting on Jake without first trying to help.

What if I shifted at the next full moon? The thought filled me with terror, but I had to confront it. I rolled over and dug my cell phone out of my pocket, clicking on a browser app and finding a November lunar calendar.

Life as I knew it could be over in ten days. Happy Thanksgiving.

***

In my dream, a man called my name, softly at first, then in a shout. He needed a big serving of shut-the-hell-up.

I cracked one eye open, discerning a bear-shaped hulk standing in my bedroom door. The elven staff was in my hand and pointed toward the bear without my realizing I’d grabbed it.

“DJ, put the staff down.” The bear spoke in Alex Warin’s deep baritone.

Groaning, I sat up and rubbed my eyes with my non-staff- wielding hand. Even my freaking eyeballs hurt. Then the horror came back to me. What the hell was I going to do?

As soon as I stuck the staff back in its holder—a vase that had begun its life in the late 1800s as a pattern glass celery dish— Alex stepped inside the room and glanced around. Seeing nothing amiss, he walked to the bed and looked down at me, a suspicious frown etching a little worry line between his eyebrows. His unkempt dark hair—always on the shaggy side—made me suspect he’d gotten home late and just rolled out of bed himself. He had the makings of a scruffy midday shadow, which pushed my sexy-as-hell buttons.

He pinned me with a decidedly unsexy glare. “Well?”

Loaded question. He looked like a man who’d arrived here with a purpose, but surely the need for an update on a crime scene wouldn’t have put that intense look on his face. “What’s up? I was sleeping. How’s Denis Villere?”

Denis was the most cantankerous merman I’d ever met, and he liked me almost as well as I liked him, which was not at all. As punishment for causing part of last month’s merman drama, his clan had been consigned by the Elders to an isolated corner of the Atchafalaya Basin. They were already stirring up problems with the local weregators.