Free Elysian Fields by Suzanne Johnson Page A

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