Chapters (50)
- Cover
- Roc Books by Jacqueline Carey
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- Forty-seven
- Forty-eight
I made a face. “Yes, sir. As soon as I type up my report.”
“Cody’s already filed an official report,” the chief said. “The X-Files version can wait. Call Amanda ASAP, Daisy. Understand?”
I sighed. “Yes, sir.”
Truth be told, Amanda Brooks is very good at her job. Paranormal tourism? She invented that industry. Oh, there have always been tourists in Pemkowet—it’s a pretty town, our beaches are lovely. It’s been an artists’ colony since the late 1800s, long before Hel established Little Niflheim, and there used to be a huge dance pavilion—I mean, like, seriously huge—that was a big draw before it burned down a couple of generations ago. I guess it’s always been a quirky place, even before Hel’s underworld made it a magnet for the eldritch.
And from what I understand, tourism actually declined in the second half of the twentieth century, after the big pavilion burned and Pemkowet was left with a reputation as an artsy place where weird shit happened. It wasn’t until Amanda Brooks took over the PVB and had the brilliant idea of turning a negative into a positive that the industry took off. Come to Pemkowet, where weird shit happens!
Now, people do. They come expecting to find a real-life Midwestern version of Sunnydale or Bon Temps or Forks or whatever their paranormal poison of choice might be. So, yeah, Amanda Brooks is really good at her job; but she seems to have a hard time grasping the fact that there’s an element of chaos at work here that can’t be controlled. This isn’t Disney World and the rides aren’t inspected for safety. There are no OSHA standards in the eldritch community.
Also, okay, I’m a little biased. During high school, her daughter, Stacey, was the head of the local mean girls’ clique and my own personal nemesis. I got suspended for a week thanks to her.
Still, duty beckoned, so I made the call. I was braced for the worst, but Amanda actually sounded a bit distracted.
“I’ve got to take a meeting,” she said. “It won’t be long. Can you be here in half an hour?”
“Sure.” Ending the call, I quickly called Jen, only to get her voice mail. Damn. I sent her a text asking if she was free to meet for lunch, which left me with twenty-five minutes to kill and an urgent need for girl talk. I thought about calling my mom, but . . . yeah, no way. Mom’s great, we have a great relationship, and I’m pretty honest with her about almost everything, but this was a bit too far outside the mother-daughter comfort zone.