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.”
CHAPTER 10
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
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.”
CHAPTER 10
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
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