Suzanne Johnson - Elysian Fields

“Not for lack of trying.” I put my cup on the coffee table and told him about Adam Lyle and my email. “I’m out of ideas.”

Alex stretched, a flex of taut muscle that distracted me more than anything I’d come up with on my own. “I bet even if your wizard DNA doesn’t protect you, the elven-wizard combination will.”

“How quickly would I feel something? Does it mean anything that I have a fever?” I’d been so jumpy since the argument with Jake, I didn’t know if my problem was heightened loup- garou senses, fear, or paranoia. Maybe all of the above.

“Not sure. I’ve dealt more with werewolves than loup- garou. Everything’s amped with them. Don’t forget, Jake healed so fast after his attack that a Blue Congress guy had to go in and doctor his medical rec ords. He even had to cast a confusion spell on the medical team.”

I eased my sleeve up, baring a forearm that still showed a scratch. Lighter and scabbed, but still there. “No fast healing. It’s a good sign, right? And my ribs still hurt like a sonofabitch.”

Alex reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “No clue, DJ. Jake was seriously torn up and had more virus in him from the get- go. Scratch like yours, you might not be able to tell anything till the full moon.”

“Great.” I slumped back again. “You go by the Gator?”

He slouched next to me, stretching out long black-clad legs and propping his feet on the coffee table. “Yeah, it’s locked tight and doesn’t look like he’s been home. The ledger from last night’s sales is still propped against the door to his apartment. I left a note for Leyla that Jake was called out of town unexpectedly and to keep running things as normal.”

“I bet he went to Old Orleans,” I said. Their hometown of Picayune, Mississippi, was full of nosy relatives, and Ken would ask too many questions.

“It’s probably a good place for him right now.” Alex slid an arm around my shoulders and pulled me against him. He was warm and safe, and I wished we could stay like this all day.

“What are you going to tell the head of the enforcers about Jake?” The enforcer chief, who also had FBI connections, had helped get the DDT set up. He’d have to know if half of his two-man investigative team was off- radar.

“I’m not going to volunteer that Jake isn’t here. With headquarters in Virginia, I can cover for a while.” Alex rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “But if I’m asked point-blank, I won’t lie for him. Not anymore.”

I prayed Jake would come back before Alex had to report him AWOL. With a loup-garou it would mean an immediate death sentence and I wasn’t sure Alex could live with that, however brave and fed-up he sounded right now.

“But this does mean it’s time to tell Ken about the Division of Domestic Terror.” Alex got up and began to pace. “With Jake gone and this Axeman case getting bigger, we need help.”

The Elders had already approved the move, but Ken was a hundred-percent human and reasoned his way through problems like a cop. He didn’t realize things like wizards existed, much less that his buddy Alex could turn into a pony-size dog and that Jake was a rogue werewolf with control problems.

But having someone inside the NOPD would be more than helpful. Alex and Jake thought Ken could handle our wacky world, and I tended to agree. I didn’t know him that well, but he struck me as serious and level-headed and not prone to drama. “When do you want to talk to him?”

“Tonight. He’s coming to my place at nine when he goes off duty, and I’d like you to be there,” Alex said. “If he makes me go furry to prove we’re not lying, you’ll have to keep him from running.”

Fabulous. I’d done such a good job at keeping Jake from running away, why not go oh- for-two?

I’d become so engrossed in the local NBC affiliate’s special on the Axeman that I jumped like a cat with his tail on fire when my cell phone blared its new Zachary Richard ringtone. I’d spent most of the day doing Axeman research and was skittish from trying to figure out the mindset of a psychopath. “Crap.” I knocked the phone off the coffee table and had to lean over to get it, which in turn squeezed my sore ribs. Zachary got off a full chorus of “Big River” by the time I’d slapped a hand on the phone, picked it up, saw an unfamiliar number, and punched talk . “DJ’s orthopedic ward, how may I help you?”

“Open your back door. I have dinner.”

Dinner sounded good.

I’d ended the call and shuffled halfway to the kitchen before realizing I had no idea who I’d be dining with. Male voice, but not soft enough for Jake. The right timbre, raspy and deep, but not Southern enough for Alex.

The kitchen was dark, and I glanced at the wall clock as I flipped on the lights, opened the kitchen door, and stared at Quince Randolph. He lived catty-cornered across Magazine Street in an apartment above his landscaping business, Plantasy Island.

I didn’t like him because unlike every other human I’d met, alive and historically undead, he gave off no emotional signature whatsoever. Which meant he either had been trained to shield his thoughts and emotions, or he wasn’t human. I tolerated him only because my best friend Eugenie had convinced herself he was The One. What was The One doing at my house at six p.m. with dinner and minus his girlfriend?

“Where’s Eugenie?” I gazed past his shoulder at her house directly across the street. No sign of her. “Is she on her way?”

He pushed past me with a big plastic bag and two bottles of beer—Abita Amber, my favorite. He was tall and lean, built like a swimmer, with broad shoulders and a touch of muscled lankiness. Not to mention pretty as a girl, with shoulder-length, wavy hair the color of honey, and too-alert eyes a bluish-green.

“Quince, seriously, what are you doing here?” I didn’t remember making plans, but the last twenty- four hours had probably killed a few brain cells.

“This is just for us—and call me Rand, remember?” He pulled cardboard cartons and Styrofoam containers from the bag. “From Five Happiness. You like Chinese, right?”

I loved Chinese, and the rich, savory aromas set my stomach to rumbling. I hadn’t done more than graze on junk since yesterday’s sugar-infused breakfast. Still . . .

“Rand!” I shouted, and he finally stopped fiddling with the food to look at me, pretty mouth turned up in a questioning smile. “Why are you here without Eugenie?”

I hated mysteries. Never liked Matlock reruns, didn’t watch detective shows, avoided whodunits. Okay, I’d watch CSI for the gross-out factor and had gone on a Law & Order jag when we’d first started investigating prete cases, but I got over it.

Not understanding Quince Randolph annoyed me. I was almost sure he wasn’t human, but not sure enough to come right out and ask him. Another damning bit of circumstantial evidence: he always wore peridot jewelry. Peridot is a beautiful stone, but it can be spelled to hide a prete’s native energy and, face it, your average guy doesn’t constantly waltz around in peridot earrings. Plus, he just flat gave me the creeps.

“No big mystery,” he said, smiling as my eyes widened. Coincidence about using the word mystery, right? Had to be. “I wanted Chinese tonight and Eugenie doesn’t really like it. So I’m eating with you.” He walked toward me and I stifled an inexplicable urge to back away.

His smile wilted when he got close, and his gaze flicked downward.

“What are you look—”

He moved fast, reaching down to encircle my left wrist in a firm grip. He lifted my arm, pushed up my sleeve, and studied the scabbed-over scratch.