Suzanne Johnson - Elysian Fields

Speaking of demons, Sebastian, an evil minion of Satan with crossed blue eyes, grabbed his rubber rat and fled the room. He lived under the mistaken impression I coveted the slimy thing.

I paused next to the worktable. If I turned loup-garou I might want to eat rats. At least one or two days a month, I’d probably want to eat Sebastian. My funk reached the status of utter and epic.

Books consumed one wall of the library: magical histories, textbooks on fables and lore, and grimoires—spellbooks filled with magic both legal and black as evil. Along with Sebastian, my elven genes, the staff, and the gutted shell of a house in Lakeview, the black grimoires were my legacy from my father and mentor, Gerry.

I spent an hour pulling out anything that might address the issue of wizards’ immunity to werewolf viruses, but found conflicting information. Enough to keep hope alive, but not enough to offer relief.

I didn’t dare log onto the Congress of Elders’ secure online database and do a search. Big Brother might be watching. Probably Adrian Hoffman, the Speaker of the Elders. My translation: PR flack and receptionist, although I guess he had to have decent wizarding skills to even hold that position.

I would never be a fan of Hoffman’s, and held him at least partially responsible for the rampage of the killer nymph last month, a debacle that left me in the hospital. Had he done a background check when I’d asked, or given any credence to the red flags raised by my elven abilities, my merman friend Rene Delachaise wouldn’t have lost his twin brother and Tish Newman, the closest I’d had to a mother since my own mom died when I was six, would still be alive. She’d been murdered on my front porch when the killer couldn’t get inside to me, and part of me would forever lay the blame at Hoffman’s feet.

I felt Tish’s absence like a physical weight now. She could always ground me, give me perspective, provide moral support. We’d buried her only a month ago, and the memory of her death, violent and unnecessary, hurt worse than my ribs. Until she was gone, I hadn’t realized how much I loved her, and maybe had taken her for granted.

So, yeah, Adrian Hoffman wasn’t my favorite person, and since he’d been publicly chastised by the Elders for not doing the background check on the killer as I’d asked, the feeling was probably mutual. If he found out I’d been exposed to the loup- garou virus, my life value would sink to the price of cheap Mardi Gras beads, Jake’s life would be forfeit, and Alex might as well open a chain of fitness centers.

I sat in the armchair by the window and stared into the branches of the live oaks outside. Horns blared and car stereos rumbled from the buildup of Monday morning traffic along Magazine Street.

Why couldn’t I have psychic skills instead of empathic? I could get my hands on that shirt Jake had found and tell where the Axeman was—maybe even tell when he’d strike next. I would know the outcome of my loup-garou exposure and could either forget it or send myself into a full-blown panic.

Holy crap. I might not be psychic, but I knew who was. I hurried to the desk and flipped open my laptop, logging onto the Elders’ site and clicking until I had the wizard directory. No Yellow Congress wizards had lived in New Orleans before Katrina, which had been fine with me. They excelled at mental magic, often telepathy and divination. I absorbed too many emotions from other people through my empathy to not be freaked out by the idea of someone else being able to read me—not just my emotions, but my thoughts.

However, all kinds of folks interested in the city’s renewal, both human and wizard, had flocked here since the storm, so we might have one now. Finally, I found one name with a New Orleans address. A familiar name.

I’d met Adam Lyle, a Houston psychiatrist, during a harebrained foray to the post-Katrina temporary morgue. I’d been desperately looking for Gerry, and Adam had been working the morgue as a volunteer—they’d needed help so badly, even a psychiatrist was welcomed. Guess he’d decided to stay.

Phone numbers had been removed from the database after a group of young Australian Blue Congress wizards had dreamt up a pyramid scheme last year, calling wizards and posing as Elders. The only contacts listed now were email addresses.

I clicked on Adam’s link and dashed off a quick note. I re- introduced myself and posed a hypothetical question I’d supposedly been asked at a party and couldn’t answer: whether a wizard exposed to a virulent strain of lycanthropy such as the loup-garou could be turned. If so, what signs should one look for, and would a Yellow Congress wizard be able to tell if the change would occur without waiting for the full moon?

It made sense that if a thought-pattern change had occurred from human to garou, a Yellow Congress wizard might be able to detect that through psychic skills. Of course if it were possible, I’d have to put a lot of trust into Adam Lyle. I’d worry about that later.

My Green Congress colleagues were geeks; we were almost always scientists or engineers—or risk-management experts. Adam should have no trouble believing this was a subject we might discuss at a cocktail party.

Relieved I’d done something proactive, I flopped on the sofa to watch the last dregs of the local morning news and mainline caffeine, still wearing my favorite Gryffindor pajamas. I closed my eyes and tried to feel anything in my own body or energy field that had changed. I still had the low-grade fever, but nothing else. If I were giving off werewolf vibes, would I be able to tell? I didn’t feel my own wizard’s energy, so probably not.

About nine, the back door rattled a few seconds and I was halfway off the sofa when I heard the dead bolt slide back and keys jingling. I relaxed again. The only other person who had a key to my house was the guy slamming cabinet doors and pouring himself coffee. “It’s me,” Alex said as an afterthought.

I’d given him a key to my house shortly after Katrina, when I’d needed a bodyguard. The immediate danger passed, but he never gave the key back and I never asked. Didn’t mean anything. At least that’s what I told myself. It must be true or I’d at least sit up and try to look presentable.

He came into the living room with a cup of coffee and one of his cardboard-coated- in-wax protein bars. Unlike me, he was neatly dressed, pressed, combed, and presentable.

“I called Ken to ask if he’d heard from Jake and he said there’d been another attack—made the TV news yet?” He shoved my feet far enough off the sofa to sit down on the other end. Sebastian raced in, dropped the rubber rat on Alex’s lap like a sacred gift, and purred in contentment. Traitorous wretch.

“Nope—is it the same as the others? Was it in the Quarter? How the hell did he come back after one day? Can you get me into the crime scene? Has Ken heard from Jake?”

Alex stroked Sebastian and scratched behind his ears. “No news on Jake. I’ll be able to get into the scene after the NOPD lab guys are done, as a courtesy, but I doubt I’ll be able to get you in. Ken won’t fall for the ‘Axeman expert’ thing twice. And you tell me—how can he come back this soon?”

I sat up, holding on to my ribs to keep them from falling out. “I guess all bets are off on his return time because of the media attention he’s getting. They’re even reading original newspaper stories on the air. He’s probably strong right now.”

Alex bit off a piece of chocolate-flavored wax and wiped a crumb from what I called his winter fighting clothes—black pants, kickass boots, and a black long-sleeved T-shirt. In summer he changed to short sleeves. When running, he changed shoes. The man was easy to shop for.

On TV, the anchor launched into a story on the upcoming holiday light display at City Park with no news on the Axeman. Alex turned sideways on the sofa to face me and rubbed my ankles. “Did you get any sleep?”