Elysian Fields Read online

  “Any of this stuff real?” Rene held up a sexual potency tonic.

  “No way. It’s illegal to sell real magical potions and spells and, besides, I lived inside your head for a couple of days, remember? You don’t need any help in that area.” Sex and money and food—welcome to the life of a merman.

  He took a step closer to whisper. “Never done it with a wizard, though, babe.”

  I elbowed him in the ribs and laughed. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Since Mr. New Age wasn’t paying any attention to us, I picked up a few of the herbal pouches and held them to my nose, deciphering the scents. Some of them—love potions, pouches to attract wealth, and Rene’s sexual potency tonic—were obvious fakes unless our necromancer had stumbled upon some secret not yet known to wizardkind.

  I sniffed at a pouch that promised protection. I could isolate the bergamot, eucalyptus, heather. Common herbs. No aura of magic came from the pouches.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  New Age Guy came from behind the counter and approached us with a friendly lift of the eyebrows. The goodwill faltered as he got closer. “Have we met?”

  I glanced around to make sure no one else was in the store. “Are you Jonas?”

  “Yessss . . . And you are?”

  I held out a hand, which he looked at a second before shaking his head. “Sorry, I don’t do handshakes. Nothing personal. Too many germs.”

  Too bad. I’d found handshakes a harmless way to do empathic mental pat downs of new acquaintances. “No problem. I’m DJ Jaco, the sentinel for the region. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  His wizard’s energy and nervousness spilled out unchecked. “I’ve had this shop open for almost six years. Your prede cessor cleared it with the Green Congress. I don’t sell anything illegal here.”

  I held up my hands. “Wait, wait, wait.” I didn’t give a crap what he sold in his shop to gullible tourists unless the potions were real. Then we’d have to talk. Later. “I want to ask you some questions about necromancy.”

  Jonas’s eyes widened, and he turned to Rene. “And you are?”

  The mer crossed his arms over his chest, which highlighted all the smooth muscle packed into those wiry limbs. “I’m her bodyguard.”

  I rolled my eyes. Rene was having way too much fun.

  Jonas seemed to accept my having a bodyguard as perfectly normal. “Let’s go in the back.”

  He flipped the open sign on the door to closed, thumbed the deadbolt forward, and led us behind the checkout counter and through a curtain of shiny, clinking black and gold beads. Sort of half goth, half New Orleans Saints.

  We walked through a storage room filled with stacked boxes stamped with rare earth supply inc., but in the back of the room, nestled behind a partition, I spotted a small worktable filled with jars and bottles. It looked not unlike my own workspace, where I mixed real potions and charms. Jonas’s aura had relaxed since learning I wasn’t there to talk about his shop inventory, but I’d bet most of Jean Lafitte’s gold he was selling real potions to human clients and using the new age shop as a front.

  We entered a small office about the size of a walk- in closet, with barely enough room for the institutional metal desk covered in peeling green paint and two straight-backed chairs. My bodyguard propped himself against the doorjamb with his hands in his pockets and his surliest expression while Jonas and I took the chairs.

  “What can I tell you?” Jonas sat in one chair and pointed me to the other. “First, I have to say I was so excited to hear our new sentinel was Green Congress. It’s about time!” His hazel eyes blazed out of a pale face that had spent too many days inside, his hair a cloud of thinning orange- red that jarred with the purple tunic.

  Buttering me up wouldn’t help him when I came back to investigate his potions sales and ingredient purchase rec ords, but for now I agreed with him wholeheartedly. It was about time the Elders recognize that not only Red Congress wizards could be sentinels, the old gits. There were a handful of Greens and Blues working as sentinels around the world, but I was the first non-Red in the U.S. Physical magic was faster and the Elders equated that with power.

  “Thanks, but I’m here to talk about necromancy— namely to ask if you know of other practitioners in the area, maybe someone new who hasn’t registered yet.”

  “Doesn’t work that way. Once registered, always registered.” He held up a forearm sporting a tattoo of an N inside a pentacle inside a circle. “The only other necromancer I know of in this area is the new vampire Regent.”

  I studied his tattoo. “This is some sort of tracking charm?” I knew necromantic wizards were required to register with the Elders, but hadn’t realized they were tracked.

  “Yes. I could move anywhere in the world and they’d know about it. I wouldn’t have to reregister. Of course”—he leaned toward me in a show of conspiratorial Green Congress fellowship—“most necromancers don’t register. Unless they’re caught raising a body, who’s going to know?”

  Holy crap. There could be necromancers living on every corner. I should have realized this. After all, I used elven magic all the time without the Elders knowing it.

  “So why register at all?”

  He smiled and leaned back. “Only registered necromancers get official jobs. I get called by the Elders to help with dispute cases—you know, when they need a corpse raised to answer a question or clarify a point. There’s money in it, although the Elders are tightwads. Most necromancers register so they can have an extra source of money. I love running this shop, but at least half my paltry income is from official necromantic jobs and I still can’t make ends meet.”

  I’d bet my own paltry income that my salary wasn’t much more than his. I asked for Jonas’s whereabouts during the past two Axeman attacks, but he had ready answers and I didn’t pick up any unease coming from him. He could be good at shielding, of course, but I couldn’t think of a plausible reason he’d be summoning someone to kill me.

  On the way out, Rene bought the sexual potency tonic, holding it up and grinning at me. “Just in case you change your mind,” he said, slipping the vial into his pocket.

  If Jonas had had a Find the Hidden Necromancer tonic, I’d have bought a bottle myself.

  ***

  A quick po-boy lunch and an hour drive to New Orleans East later, I parked the Pathfinder outside a back fence to Six Flags, figuring the front parking lot might be too high profile since the fire.

  Adrian Hoffman sat on our same bench with his arms crossed, tapping a foot impatiently and staring at a series of targets lined up along the entrance to the Cajun Nation arcade. They looked like shooting range targets except they were made of metal instead of paper—steel or aluminum, maybe, in the shape of a person. He must’ve had the Elders’ handy-dandy supply house up all night packing and delivering those babies.

  The building behind them was plain cinderblock, unadorned except for gang tags in varying degrees of obscenity. Fireproof. Adrian was prepared for me.

  The sun still hadn’t made an appearance, and my nose grew numb in the cold, damp air. I did not want to be here, but learning to use the elven staff more effectively seemed like a good idea given my priority on the Axeman’s hit list.

  Which I tried to explain to Adrian, without much success, when he wanted to know why I was ten minutes late. “He’s after me specifically,” I said. “Can’t the Elders help find the necromancer who’s controlling him? It has to be someone unregistered.”

  “We have only the undead pirate’s word that there is even a necromancer involved, and I consider Jean Lafitte far from reliable.” Adrian brushed off a leaf that dared land on his camelcolored sweater, which had to be cashmere and perfectly matched his slacks.

  “No, we have more than Jean Lafitte’s word for it.” I filled Adrian in on the summoning. “The Axeman admits someone’s trying to control him, and I’m his target.”

  Adrian crossed his arms and studied me with a frown. “He gave you
no more information on this wizard’s identity? Or why he’d want to kill you?”

  “Nothing. Do you have any ideas?”

  He shrugged. “Obviously, you’ve inherited your father’s talent for alienating people. I’d suggest you go through your list of enemies.”

  What a jerk. “I’ll do that. Thanks for the suggestion.” I’d worn my Tulane sweatshirt because it was roomy enough to accommodate the latest in wizard weaponry. I’d adapted a Velcro-fastened belt of the type joggers used to stash money and keys so it would hold a variety of premade potions and charms. I’d loaded it with the Axeman in mind, but I might have to use it on Adrian.

  Instead, I decided to try talking to him again. Adrian could help me if he’d drop some of his attitude. He was older and his skill set was different.

  “Look, I’m the Axeman’s target, so this has gotten personal.” I told him about the numbers on the wall at the crime scenes and the trashing of my living room. The longer I talked, the deeper his frown etched into his features.

  Adrian sat back on the bench, staring at the roller coaster. “You realize that if the Axeman was summoned by this necromancer while you had him in a circle, that means the necromantic wizard is more powerful than you.”

  Yeah, well, thanks for pointing that out. “Unfortunately, yes, at least when it comes to necromancy versus summoning. Anyway, I’m at a dead end and thought you might have some ideas.”

  Adrian shook his head. “This is outside my realm of expertise, but let me talk to someone at headquarters. Maybe we can come up with some ideas. In the meantime, the best thing you can do is learn to use your elven magic more effectively.”

  I nodded and pulled Charlie out of my backpack. “Let’s do it.”

  Adrian reached beside him for his briefcase, snapped it open with authority, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “First, I want to talk about the political structure of the elves and some of the skills you don’t seem to have.” He thrust half of the papers at me with a rattle.

  Great. The Axeman wanted to slice my head open; Adrian wanted to make it explode with political minutiae. I looked at the top sheet on the stack and stifled an eye-roll. The man had made a freaking elven organ i zational chart.

  “Terrific,” I said.

  “And then you can practice with the staff.” He looked pointedly at the blackened, half-submerged hull of Jean Lafitte’s Pirate Ship. “Which you obviously need.”

  “Obviously.”

  “If you’ll refer to the first sheet, you’ll see the top hierarchy of the elves, along with the individuals who currently hold the seats of power.” It was official; he was going to bore me to death. Except when I took a grudging glance at the sheet I noticed the name at the top: MACE BANYAN, chief of the Elven Synod.

  He was the one who wanted to meet with me so badly, the same one who’d popped up in 1850 New Orleans like an evil genie when I’d gone into the time-travel portion of Old Orleans for dinner with the pirate. Mace had touched me under the guise of shaking hands, and I would have been on the ground within seconds, my mind broken under a tidal wave of memories and images from my past, had it not been for Jean’s intervention. That elf had some serious skills.

  “Who are these names below Mace Banyan, and why is his name on here twice?” I studied the org chart more closely.

  “The elves are divided into four clans or tribes, according to their magical specialties.” Adrian warmed to the subject; he’d have made a good professor, much as I hated to admit it. “There has been little intermarriage between clans, as nearly as I can tell, so the bloodlines have remained remarkably pure.”

  He held up his own chart, identical to mine except larger. We should have met at his apartment so he could have popped up a slide show. “Each of the clans represents one of the elements and has a clan chief. Mace Banyan, in addition to being head of the Synod, or ruling council, is also chief of the Awyr, or Elves of the Air. The other clans are the Ddaear, or Elves of the Earth; the Dwr, or Elves of the Water; and the Tân, or Elves of the Fire. I’ve heard they’re are smallest clan by far, but it’s rumor—the elves don’t advertise their politics.”

  My eyes started glazing over. “So, I can study this all later, right?” Or was he planning a pop quiz?

  He sniffed. “I suppose your attention span is too short to absorb more than the barest of basics in one sitting.”

  Damn straight. “So, from your vast knowledge about elven magic”—Adrian nodded solemnly, the snark flying right over his shiny head—“which clan do my skills best fit?”

  He thought a moment and looked back at me. “Let me ask about a few more of your skills, and I might have a better idea. Given that the staff Mahout claimed you, and you wield fire with it, my first instinct would be to guess that your dominant clan is the Tân.”

  Fire elves. That made sense. I wondered if that dominant gene came from Gerry or my mom, who’d given up her Green Congress skills to live as human just as her mother had done.

  Adrian put the papers back into his briefcase. “Shall we continue?”

  I put my own sheaf of elven bureaucracy in my backpack. “I’ll look through the papers tonight and write down any questions I have.”

  “Fine. Let’s go through a few other elven skills.” Adrian moved the briefcase aside and turned to face me on the bench. “Can you discern health issues—if you touch a person, can you tell if they’re ill or have a pending health crisis?”

  That was an elven skill? “No, I can’t do that. Can all the elves do that?” Thank goodness Zrakovi hadn’t set up the elf meeting until after the full moon, when I’d be gone. Otherwise, Mace Banyan would know about my little fur problem and use it against me.

  Adrian folded his arms over his chest. “Not all elves can do that—chiefly the earth elves. You’ve said you and your father could communicate through dreams. Have you been able to communicate telepathically with anyone while awake?”

  “No. I can only read emotions and energy signatures,” I said, earning a look of confusion. “It’s the thing I was talking about at the office last week. Every species has a unique energy field—I can feel them and tell what species someone is, most of the time.” Quince Randolph being an annoying exception.

  Adrian frowned. “So you can identify a species by the aura they project?”

  I nodded. “It’s how I was able to tell that murdered professor whose body we found last month was a wizard—there was still enough of an energy signature on him that I recognized it. And how I knew the Axeman Deux murders were being done by the real Axeman. The historical undead have a slightly different aura than a human or another undead species like vampires.”

  He frowned. “So you can tell I’m a Blue Congress wizard by the energy I give off?”

  His interest surprised me. Of all the elven skills I had, energy recognition was helpful but hardly exciting. “No, I can tell you’re a wizard, but not what congress you’re in or what your unique abilities are.” Too bad, because that would have been useful.

  “What about the emotions—you claim to be empathic?”

  “I am empathic, and those abilities are ramped up by touch.” I reached out and rested my hand on his arm. He flinched but didn’t jerk it away. “I can tell you are uncomfortable with me touching you, and that you’re worried about something . . . and that you feel love toward someone.” Interesting.

  I smiled at his look of alarm. “Don’t freak out. I can’t tell what you’re worried about or who you love—only the emotion. I’m not psychic.”

  He stared at me a long time before finally moving on. “Can you do memory acquisition? Touch someone and pull memories from them?”

  I shuddered at the sensation of Mace Banyan scrambling in my head. “No, but that’s a trait of the Air Elves, right?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, although it’s the water elves who are most adept at it. How did you know?”

  I told him about my brief encounter with Mace Banyan in the Beyond.

  “Interesting,�
� he said, eyeing me curiously. “What did it feel like?”

  I tugged down my sleeves to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. “It felt like my brain was being run through a food pro cessor, set to liquefy. It hurt.”

  Adrian digested that for a moment, then abruptly stood. “Let’s work on your staff skills.”

  I set my backpack on the bench, pulled out the staff, and walked over to inspect the targets. They were about six feet tall, metallic silver, and in the shape of men and women—sort of like the little universal symbols on the doors of restrooms. An etched X marked the rough location of heart and brain. “You got these from central supply?”

  He nodded. “The enforcers use them with trainees. The metal targets are good for using incendiary ammunition like one would use on a zombie—or for wizards who have poor aim with elven staffs.”

  Yeah, because there were so many of us.

  “Pay attention,” Adrian snapped, taking a spot about four feet away from the figures. “Start from here. Once you’re accurate at this range, you can move farther back.”

  For the next hour, I practiced aiming the staff and shooting small ropes of flame at the targets. Adrian complained about the size and fury of my flames, insulting my lack of power, but I wasn’t about to waste energy on target practice when I needed to plan an escape to the Beyond.

  Finally, I managed to hit the heart four times out of five from close range. The head remained a problem, being a smaller target, but I’d had enough. The lack of sleep, plus the physical magic used to channel the staff, left me with a pounding headache and muscles that felt like they’d been squeezed through a wringer. Not to mention loup-garou changes, since I’d worked up an unladylike sweat and had pushed my sleeves up to my elbows.

  Adrian was sort of droopy himself. “I need to go to Edinburgh on business for a few days, so after our lesson tomorrow we won’t meet again until next week. But you should come out here and work over the weekend. You need the practice.” He helped me drag the targets into the shelter of what was left of the Cajun Nation building. They’d probably be covered in gang tags by tomorrow, unless they’d been stolen.