Suzanne Johnson - Elysian Fields

Jean and Alex had learned to coexist, sort of, but they’d never be more than antagonists who tolerated each other’s presence as a necessary evil.

Alex was off base this time, though. “Actually, I was thinking of Louis Armstrong.”

I figured summoning Louis Armstrong from the Beyond would be a good diversion from worrying about whether my newly developed low-grade fever had anything to do with the loup-garou virus. It was probably the result of running around in the damp air early this morning. Or so I told myself.

Alex insisted on staying while I did the summoning, and I didn’t argue. Last time I’d tried it, I’d been trying to get my father and had instead called up a pissed-off voodoo god who wanted to kill me and steal my powers.

I didn’t want to summon Louis Armstrong and end up with something dangerous. If I wanted to flirt with danger, I’d ring up Jean Lafitte.

Just because Alex was present didn’t mean he was attentive. While I rolled up the area rug in my library, freeing an open space on the hardwood floor and groaning from the pain the activity caused my ribs, Alex ignored me and stretched out on the sofa with a graphic novel on the Axeman I’d found online.

Last week, he’d helped me etch three perfect, concentric circles into my library floor while I apologized to all the previous own ers of my century-old home for defacing it.

Digging the broom out of the upstairs closet, I gave the room a quick sweep to make sure no dust bunnies interfered with the ritual. Sebastian got shut out of the room for the same reason.

I sprinkled a trail of unrefined sea salt along the outermost circle, then went in search of summoning totems. A biography of Louis went outside the circle at the north point, and a photograph of him on the south. East and west, I placed my iPod scrolled to “What a Wonderful World” and a pen he’d left in his room at the Gator when he’d come across as my spy after the hurricane.

After walking the circle to make sure nothing was out of place, I knelt and flicked a small knife across the pad of my thumb, squeezing until a big dollop of red fell on the lines. For now and forever, the sight of blood would bring Jake to mind, and not in a good way.

I shook off the thought and focused instead on Louis Armstrong, envisioning his face as I spoke his name.

Sometimes, if the object of a summoning is antagonistic or reluctant, it will take a while for the person to materialize. Louis popped up within thirty seconds, wearing a tuxedo and a huge smile.

I broke the circle and hugged him, which shot pain through my ribcage, and Alex hauled himself off the sofa to shake hands. Louis looked a lot less stressed than the last few times I’d seen him.

“I been thinking about coming to visit you all, but didn’t know if it was the right thing to do.” Louis followed us downstairs and joined us at the kitchen table, the immaculate black and white of his tux out of place in the kitchen of my hundredyear- old house with its scuffed floors and the vintage chrome and red Formica table I’d found at a yard sale.

I poured Louis a soda while Alex filled him in on how the city had recovered since Katrina. A long, slow haul. We’d been told after the hurricane it would take a decade to recover. At the time, I’d thought it was an exaggeration; now, not so much.

“How’s Jake doing? Been seeing him in Old Orleans every now and then and he seems to be okay.” Louis sipped his Coke and got that glazed-over look in his eyes that only sugar and carbonated water can bring.

Alex and I exchanged raised eyebrows. Jake had been going to Old Orleans?

“Where did you see him?” Alex asked. “Have you seen him today?”

Louis shook his head. “Nope, not today. Off and on the last six months, I guess. He comes in and listens to me play, mostly at the place called Beyond and Back. Listens to the other musicians. Has a few drinks.” He shrugged. “Nothing unusual.”

We pondered that news a few seconds. “Does he meet with anyone over there?” I asked. “Seem to have any friends?” I hoped Jake was building a life for himself, even if it wasn’t one he wanted to share with me or Alex.

Louis fixed me with a rare frown. “You aren’t trying to get Pops to spy for you again, are you? I wasn’t good at it, and I won’t do it again, especially if you’re wanting me to spy on Jake.”

He might have been the world’s worst spy ever, in fact, but I wasn’t asking that of him again. I liked the idea that if Jake was hanging out in Old Orleans—the free-for-all zone just across the physical border from the modern city—he had somebody watching his back, even in a passive way.

“No spying,” I said, and smiled when Louis visibly relaxed. “But there have been three attacks here in New Orleans that look to be the work of one of the historical undead. A serial killer known as the Axeman. We wondered if you’d heard anything.”

Louis leaned back and frowned. “I remember when the Axeman was killing folks all over town—was just after the first world war. I was playing in a jazz band with a steady gig on a riverboat, sailing up and down the Mississippi and playing all the way to the parishes and back. Got married ’bout that time.” His mind seemed to float into the past for a few seconds.

“What do you remember about him?” Alex asked.

“He was evil.” Louis looked at Alex and then at me. “Lots of folks didn’t even think he was a human—thought he was a devil of some kind. Other folks thought it was a mob thing, you know, ’cause so many of the people he chopped up were Italian.”

I’d read both theories and thought both were bunk. Not that I didn’t believe in demons—or the Mafia, for that matter. But the Axeman had liked to play sadistic games with the authorities and the newspapers of the day. Demons didn’t send bizarre letters to newspapers claiming to be demons, as the Axeman had. But it was exactly the kind of stunt that would be pulled by a batshit-crazy human.

“Have you heard anything about him in Old Orleans?” I asked Louis. He could keep his ears open. Technically, that wasn’t spying.

“No ma’am, but I can tell you how to protect yourself,” he said.

I hadn’t considered myself a target, but I’d play along. “What’s that?”

“Get one of my records.” Louis smiled. “That Axeman, he loved him some jazz. Even said in one of his letters to the Picayune that he wouldn’t attack nobody while they were playing jazz. Made business real good for us at the time.”

Somehow I didn’t think distributing jazz CDs to everyone in New Orleans to play twenty- four/seven would solve our problems. “If you hear anything, will you let me know?”

“Sure thing. Pops’ll keep his ears open, long as he don’t have to spy.” He paused, his mouth widening in a sly smile. “You got one of those . . . what did you call them . . . cell phones? I’d sure like another one of them.”

The cell phone had worked fine after Katrina, when Louis was living in that vacant apartment over the Gator. Somehow, I doubted anyone offered digital phone service in Old Orleans. But if the man wanted a phone, I’d get him one of those no- contract specials with some minutes on it.

Sleep wasn’t happening, and it wasn’t just the Axeman bothering me.

My muscles ached, and my limbs twitched under the covers with nervous energy. After flailing around my bed until my legs were entombed in a knot of sheets and blankets, I extricated myself and slumped into my library-slash-workroom.

Here, I stashed my magical gear and the spell and potion ingredients that comprised the stock-in-trade of Green Congress wizards, the ritual magic- makers of the wizarding world. The bottles, jars, and containers—most from my collection of Early American Pattern Glass—sat, orga nized and meticulous, on their floor-to-ceiling shelves in a way only achieved by the truly obsessive-compulsive. Cinnamon, mint, and ginger scents swirled in a comforting mélange, and I took solace in the order of it.