Suzanne Johnson - Elysian Fields

Crap, Jonas had regained control.

I held out the staff, ready to take another shot, but Jean was between me and Jonas. Instead, I looked behind me, trying to make out the dim shells of storefronts that lined the midway. I needed to hunker down and figure out a strategy.

I ran toward a hulk of a building—some type of souvenir stand, back when the world was normal and Six Flags was full of laughter and music. Halfway there, I went sprawling on the wet cement, and twisted around to see the bottom section of a concrete planter. In the rain and shadows, this was like running an obstacle course blind.

As if on cue, a rainbow of neon lights flickered, then shone in a steady glow along the walkway, even from shops missing doors, windows, or even front walls. At the far end of the fake French Quarter midway, the carousel began to twirl, its empty swings flying outward, tinny jazz music playing at a frenzied pace, orange and gold lights twinkling around the ornate top. Blinding and brilliant even through the sheets of cold rain.

Holy crap. The ghost of Six Flags Past had been resurrected. It was classic Blue Congress magic—creation and re-creation, and if I hadn’t known he was doing it to help Jean find and kill me, I’d have given Adrian props for being able to maintain this kind of magical illusion on such a large scale.

I spotted Jean rounding the end of the first storefront. He slowed when he saw me, his movements mechanical and stiff. He was fighting Adrian from sheer force of personality.

Running again, I darted into a darkened corner and through an alleyway between buildings. Behind them, back in the shadows, I half fell, half jumped over trash and rotted storm debris. Finally, I found a dark corner in which to hide. This was the same building I’d used while running from the Axeman. The store’s front wall was missing, and most of its rear. I’d have an escape route.

I steadied my breath and wiped the rain off my face, thankful the adrenaline had at least cleared my head of the dizziness. I couldn’t just run from Jean. Eventually, he’d catch me. He’d been right; I needed to take out Jonas Adamson. Without the necromancer, the spell on Jean would be broken and, now that he wasn’t tethered to a light pole, he’d be one hell of a backup.

I slipped through the hole in the back wall, using my hands to feel my way along the plain concrete rear of the faux Vieux Carre stores, retracing my route to the walkway entrance.

I’d like to blow Lily’s pale elven ass straight to Elf heim, and if she landed on Mace Banyan, all the better. He might be innocent of trying to have me killed, but he wasn’t innocent. Might as well throw in Betony as well. And Rand, just for good measure. Anything smacking of elf was on my bad list.

By the time I reached the back of the last store, I was ready to shoot something. My best shooting range with the staff had been six feet and closer, so I needed to get near the entrance to the storefront Adrian was using for his magical setup.

I scanned the area, looking for another place to run for cover, and decided on the remains of the giant clown head. It was in a relatively unlit area, about the width of a basketball court from where I crouched, and I could get to it without running through the open part of the midway.

Another quick look around the corner didn’t reveal my pirate, so I sprinted for the clown . . . and skidded to a stop on muddy ground as Jean stepped from behind it. The muscles in his face stretched taut, his eyes dark swirls of anger. I knew the anger wasn’t directed at me, but at the wizard issuing orders.

“Come to me, Drusilla,” he said softly. “Let us end this.”

I pointed the staff at him and willed a brief burst of my magical energy into it, jerking it left at the last second and hitting the giant clown—which even after the fire was so huge I couldn’t miss it.

Its blue cap and right eye exploded in a burst of plaster shards and dust that mixed with the pouring rain, and knocked Jean off his feet. Just the distraction I needed to run toward the building where I’d last seen Adrian and Terri.

Slipping and skating across the muddy ground, I raced around the carousel, which still careened madly, throwing orange and gold sparks from its equipment room door. Adrian must be getting tired; the music had gone from tinny to warbly, and the bright array of red and gold lights around the carousel’s top flickered on and off.

I heard a boom, and thought it was thunder until I found myself facedown in the mud, my right shoulder a mass of throbbing, fiery pain. I tried to push myself up, but my right arm collapsed under me. Part of my mind registered that I’d been shot, but my legs kept wanting to run.

A strong arm around my left arm jerked me to my feet. “I am sorry, Jolie . They ordered me to shoot the wizard, so I shot at the necromancer. The elf shot you. I’m being ordered to hold you.”

Jean was shouting, but his voice sounded muffled and distant. At first I thought the rain was muffling the the sound around us, including Jean’s voice, but when the carousel behind him tilted at a thirty-degree angle I realized how close I was to passing out. If I fainted, I died—simple as that. Jean wouldn’t be able to intentionally misinterpret his instructions indefinitely.

Whimpering as torn skin and ligaments created shards of pain that sliced through my body, I slipped my right hand into my pocket and pulled out my only remaining charm, thumbing off the top and flinging it at Jean’s arm.

“Mon Dieu.” He released me and held his arms out into the driving rain. My acid charm wasn’t made to work in these conditions, and most of it washed off. I only made it a few feet before he caught me again.

My legs gave way when he grabbed my right arm, the pain so sharp the Axeman might as well have chopped off my arm at the shoulder. So this was what it felt like to be shot. It sucked.

Jean slowly pulled his dagger from its resting spot under the wide black belt he wore when in fighting pirate mode. I’d studied that dagger before; triangular blade, razor sharp, wicked. It would hurt like hell too.

I jerked away from him enough to raise the staff between us with my left hand, but I shook so badly it might as well have been a twig from a pine tree. He grasped my hand and held it steady, lowering the staff until its tip rested over his heart. “Do it, Drusilla. They have ordered me to stab you in the heart, and to do it now. I fight it, but I cannot change the order to something that will not kill you.”

“I can’t.” My voice was nothing but a whisper, and I felt hot tears mingling with the cold rain on my face. “I can’t do it.” I knew that for the historical undead, the real death had already occurred, and that Jean would not truly die from anything I did. But it was still using my magic to willfully, seriously hurt someone I cared about. I’d never done that before, and now I knew it wasn’t in me.

Holding the end of the staff steady against his chest with his left hand, he raised the dagger with his right, pressing it against my breastbone. “I cannot stop this, Jolie. You must save us both.”

He pressed the point of the blade through the waterlogged fabric of the sweatshirt, barely breaking skin but doing just enough to bring me out of the gray haze that threatened to overwhelm me. “God help me,” I whispered, and sent a burst of magic into the staff.

I smelled the burn of flesh and fabric, even in the rain, and Jean dropped the dagger as he crumpled to the ground. I knelt with him, stroking his cheek, easing him onto his back. His dark blue eyes cleared, and he smiled. Seconds later, he died another death, and I felt part of my soul die with him. Everyone who had a hand in this was going to pay. I didn’t know how, but they would.