Elysian Fields (8 page)

Adrian seemed genuinely interested, and I guess if I’d studied for master’s levels on a species as elusive as the elves, it would be exciting to think one of them might be in our midst.

“I’m not sure. There’s a guy who moved into my neighborhood a month or two ago, and he’s wearing peridot jewelry that I was able to tell had been bespelled by a wizard—probably a black-market buy. So he’s hiding what he is.”

Now that I put it into words, the whole notion that this crunchy-granola nursery owner was an elf or faery in disguise sounded paranoid.

“Why would you think he was an elf? And how were you able to tell the jewels had been bespelled?” Adrian frowned at me, and Zrakovi leaned forward with interest.

“I can sense the energy that comes from people and objects. Each species gives off a slightly different energy signature.” This was not a wizard skill, and Adrian’s contempt for my ability to read auras was a major factor in the deaths last month. From the sour look on Adrian’s face, he hadn’t forgotten.

Zrakovi leaned back and gave me an assessing look. “Reading auras is an elven skill and is one of the reasons I wanted the two of you to work together to see what other abilities DJ has inherited. Adrian, I believe you’re going to find our DJ a very interesting student.”

Adrian locked his annoyed gaze with mine. “I’m sure.”

T
here was nothing I could do on the loup-garou front, so I spent the next few hours working on the Axeman case. I charted the latest two attacks, which both fit within the walkingdistance radius. But attacks four and five had come so soon after the third that I had to wonder if the Axeman had just killed on one big spree instead of coming back each time from the Beyond. He’d probably be strong enough by now to stay for long periods, and every kill would make him stronger as more people talked about him.

With Ken now willing to smooth the way, I walked each of the crime scenes, reaching out with my senses to see if I could again sense that bit of energy from a member of the historical undead. Nada. It didn’t hang around long enough.

Next, I went to the Historic New Orleans Collection and did some research on the Axeman I couldn’t get from the Internet. He had left clothing behind at a few of his original crime scenes, so Jake’s find was consistent with the original killer. The professor on TV had been wrong. What really made the Axeman’s latest spree different is that he’d grown more efficient at killing—several of his victims in 1918 had survived.

I’d discussed the Axeman case with Zrakovi and Adrian before they left, but thanks to my sort-of friendship with Jean Lafitte, I knew more about the historical undead than they did. Zrakovi planned to call a meeting with the nascent Interspecies Council and ordered the paperwork that would confine the Axeman within the Beyond for the rest of his miserable immortal life . . . once we’d caught him. But the Council had yet to decide how many votes each species got, or how the balance of power would break down. They could be tangled in bureaucracy forever.

Unfortunately, with the historical undead, the death penalty wasn’t an option, and if my calculations were accurate, the Axeman could kill again as early as tonight. He could do a lot of damage before the Interspecies Council got its act together.

By midafternoon, I was out of ideas and full of nervous energy that finally sent me out of doors, catching up on yard work I’d neglected all season, raking the small, crunchy leaves from the live oaks into piles a kid would love to play in.

“Need help?”

I ignored the voice and counted to ten, hoping it would go away. Instead, Quince Randolph knelt next to a tall pyramid of leaves I’d erected and took the lid off the big green trash can he’d brought with him. He began scooping up armfuls and piling them in the can. “You should compost this down. It would make a good mulch for flowerbeds. Plus you need more color in your landscaping.”

“What ever.” I didn’t know what mulch was, didn’t care enough to ask, and had such a brown thumb that flowers never survived my gardening efforts. Rand wore a chocolate-brown sweater almost the same color as mine, with jeans in a similar wash. With our comparable shades of long blond hair, we resembled grown-up Bobbsey Twins, except he was prettier. Freddie and Flossie do New Orleans. “Are you here for any particu lar reason?”

He squinted up at me against the soft afternoon sunlight. “I just want to get to know you better.”

Uh-huh. I was about to get to know Adrian Hoffman better. That constituted enough challenge for one week. “Tell me what you are, and then we’ll know each other better. I’m betting elf or faery.” I was kind of betting elf—it might explain his interest in me although, thankfully, he’d never shown any inclination to plunder my brain.

He grinned. “Go to dinner with me and I might tell you.”

I noted the return of his peridot earrings. Big liar. Superbig cheater. “Where’s Eugenie?”

A flash of irritation spoiled his perfect features a half second before he answered. “Working. Can we—”

Whatever he planned to ask, my answer would be no, but he didn’t get a chance because a clomping noise reached us from the direction of Prytania Street. Rand and I both were stricken speechless at the sight of Jean Lafitte sitting like royalty in the back of a gold and white French Quarter tourist carriage. It was being pulled by a light-gray mule wearing a hat festooned with fake flowers and driven by a smiling guy who had no idea how many daggers his undead passenger had hidden on him.

The ornate carriage rolled to a stop, and the mule flicked an ear at the passing traffic. Those animals pulled tourists around the French Quarter all day, and it would take more than an impatient Toyota driver to rattle one of them. The carriages were also ridiculously expensive if one commissioned a ride outside the Quarter.

Then again, Jean Lafitte was loaded. The driver probably had a reason to smile.

Jean exited the carriage with extraordinary grace for such a large man. He was tall, powerfully built, black-haired, cobalt- eyed, a shameless flirt, and talked with a raspy French accent that made me swoon even though he was technically dead. In other words, I had a bit of a problem with Jean Lafitte and my own common sense being present at the same time.

Jean said a few words to the carriage driver, then turned to prop his hands on his hips in a broad pirate-like stance, giving Rand a disapproving visual once-over. The mule backed up a few awkward steps before pulling the carriage into my driveway. God help me, I hoped Alex didn’t get home in time to see this. I’d never hear the end of it.

“Do you wish me to rid you of this intruder,
Jolie
?”

Rand stood and faced the pirate, and I had to give the man—thing, elf, faery, whatever—credit for going toe-to- toe against Jean without a flinch of hesitation. “If she wants me to leave, she just has to say so.”

Seriously? “Okay, I’d like you to leave.” I leaned on my rake, half hoping Rand would refuse so Jean would bully him. I wouldn’t let the pirate hurt him, of course, but it might be gratifying to watch a little heavy-handed persuasion.

Rand hefted the big can of leaves. “I really do need to talk to you soon, Dru.” He gave Jean a disdainful smirk before striding back across Magazine Street.

Did he just call me Dru? I shot daggers at his back as he disappeared into Plantasy Island, swinging the load of leaves as if it weighed nothing.

“Any idea what he is?” I asked Jean, who’d followed my gaze.

“Non.”
He turned back to me. “I received your telephone message. We must speak, Drusilla. It is urgent.”

Good Lord. I couldn’t handle any more bad news. “Yeah, I need to talk to you too. Come on inside. Is the carriage waiting for you?”

“
Oui.
I cannot stay as long as I might wish.”

This must be serious. Jean had been here more than thirty seconds and hadn’t made a pass at me, tried to broker a business deal, or issued a half-baked smarmy comment. Either he was losing his touch or, more likely, whatever he had to say was catastrophic. Life seemed to be following that path these days.

He followed me through the back door and we settled at the kitchen table, facing each other. He looked even more odd sitting there than Louis Armstrong had, his energy too big for such a small space. At six-two he stood an inch shorter than Alex and probably had twenty or thirty fewer pounds of muscle, but still his presence seemed to exaggerate his size to overflow whatever space he was in. The man reeked of power.

“You want a Coke?” If the undead Jean Lafitte was going to sit at my kitchen table, I could at least be a good hostess.

He frowned. “
Qu’est- ce que c’est Coke
?”

I had a few real Cokes in the fridge for Eugenie, who considered corn syrup less poisonous to one’s system than the chemically sweetened stuff I guzzled. I poured some over ice, handed it to him, and set the bottle on the table. “You’ll love it.”

He sipped cautiously, then smiled.
“Sucre.”

“Exactly. Sugar and bubbles.”

He sipped again and smiled more broadly. “As always,
Jolie,
you know how to lighten a man’s heart. I should have come to visit you sooner.”

There was the Jean Lafitte I knew. The charming devil.

“Why does your heart need lightening?”

“Ah, yes.” He set the glass down. “I must speak to you about the most unfortunate incidents that have befallen our city. I assume that is why you called me at my hotel?” His dark blue eyes crinkled. “Or might I hope you called on more personal matters?”

I returned his smile. I couldn’t help myself. I needed therapy. “Sorry, but it was about the Axeman murders. I believe it’s one of your historical undead.”

He sipped the Coke again and narrowed his eyes as he studied the glass. I wondered if a black market for Coca-Cola among the prete population of Old Orleans would be forthcoming. Louis Armstrong said Jean had made inquiries about supplying certain bars in the Beyond’s version of a Weird West border town with modern alcohol and cigarettes. Since most of the denizens of the Beyond weren’t likely to drive drunk or get lung cancer, I figured it was good for business on both sides of the border.

He poured the rest of the soda into his glass and examined the empty plastic bottle. Yep, definitely a business plan in the making.

“You can figure out how to smuggle Coke to the Beyond later. Is the attacker the original Axeman?”

He set the bottle down and nodded. “
Oui,
you deduced this much, which is good. I have not been able to discover his true identity and he has proven skilled at remaining hidden. I have made arrangements to leave the city for a short time, to see if I can capture him in Old Orleans and turn him over to your Elders.”

I had to smile. “The infamous Jean Lafitte is going to help the authorities?” Definitely not standard pirate procedure.

He grinned. “Ah, but you must understand,
Jolie
. If this vicious
criminel
is not apprehended, his activities could interfere with my ability to conduct my affairs or cause your Elders to place limitations on when the historical undead might come into the modern world. I might not be able to once again ask you to dine with me.”

Uh-huh, because that had turned out so well the first time.

“There is another, more urgent reason for me to discover and apprehend the Axeman, however. One of which you might be unaware.”

A reason more important to Jean than business or romance had to be extreme. “What is it?”

“There is talk in Old Orleans that the Axeman is no longer acting alone, that he has now fallen under the control of one of your kind. Toward what purpose, I do not yet know.”

I was lost. “What do you mean, one of my kind?”

He got up from the table and paced, muttering in French. “How to explain. The Axeman is no longer acting on his own counsel. He is being controlled by someone else, a”—he paused and muttered again—“what do you call a person who can manipulate
le morte
?”

“Manipulate the dead?” I frowned at him a few seconds before a horrible understanding dawned. “You mean a necromancer? A necromantic wizard is controlling the Axeman?”

I’d never heard of it happening, but I didn’t see why it couldn’t. Necromancers could raise zombies, but zombies were ordinary dead people who acted by the will of their resurrector. They weren’t sentient like the historical undead. Would necromantic magic outweigh free will in a member of the historical undead? I’d had a good grounding in preternaturals through my education with Gerry, but somehow this situation had never arisen.

Jean correctly interpreted my dumbfounded expression and sat again. “
Oui,
just so. I wanted to be certain you were informed of this before I left the city, and to inquire if you would accompany me.”

I looked up at Jean. “Go to Old Orleans with you to try and catch the Axeman? I think that’s a good thing for you to do, but I’d be more effective on this side of the border.” For many reasons, not the least of which is that I had possibly added a necromantic wizard to my most-wanted list. I had no proof, but could see no advantage Jean would gain by lying.

“I will learn what I can about this
necromancer
”—he said the word slowly as if committing it to memory—“and will provide you with any details I learn.”

The whole necromancer scenario didn’t add up for me. I couldn’t see the purpose of it. “You said the necromancer was
now
controlling the Axeman—does that mean he wasn’t always controlling him?”

“
Oui,
that is my understanding of the matter. The killer was simply coming across the border as I do, although with dark purpose. I come only with the purest of intentions, as you know.”

Pure intentions and pure greed. “Certainly,” I said. “So what changed?”

“When in Old Orleans this past eve ning, seeing to a possible shipment of goods, I heard talk of a wizard who had enabled the Axeman to reenter the modern city more quickly than he might otherwise do.”

So he could kill more people? How would that benefit a necromancer?

I rubbed my eyes and fought off a sudden wash of heat, then chills, then overwhelming exhaustion. Maybe it was loup-garou DNA making another change, or maybe I’d simply reached my limit for bad news between the Axeman attacks, Jake, loup-garou viruses, elf lessons, and now a freaking rogue necromancer. A wizard. One of my own people.