Dark Currents: Agent of Hel

Dark Currents: Agent of Hel

Jacqueline Carey, New York Times bestselling author of the acclaimed Kushiel’s Legacy novels, presents an all-new world featuring a woman caught between the normal and paranormal worlds, while enforcing order in both. Introducing Daisy Johanssen, reluctant hell-spawn… The Midwestern resort town of Pemkowet boasts a diverse population: eccentric locals, wealthy summer people, and tourists by the busload; not to mention fairies, sprites, vampires, naiads, ogres and a whole host of eldritch folk, presided over by Hel, a reclusive Norse goddess. To Daisy Johanssen, fathered by an incubus and raised by a single mother, it’s home. And as Hel’s enforcer and the designated liaison to the Pemkowet Police Department, it’s up to her to ensure relations between the mundane and eldritch communities run smoothly. But when a young man from a nearby college drowns—and signs point to eldritch involvement—the town’s booming paranormal tourism trade is at stake. Teamed up with her childhood crush, Officer Cody Fairfax, a sexy werewolf on the down-low, Daisy must solve the crime—and keep a tight rein on the darker side of her nature. For if she’s ever tempted to invoke her demonic birthright, it could accidentally unleash nothing less than Armageddon.   Praise for Jacqueline Carey “A writer to watch—as the cliché goes—but more important, a writer to read.”--Storm Constatine “[Jacqueline Carey] has a flair for character development and intricate plotting and world-building that recalls [George R.R.] Martin’s.”-- SF Reviews "Carey's storytelling ability is top-notch."-- Publishers Weekly New York Times bestselling author Jacqueline Carey is the author of the critically acclaimed Kushiel’s Legacy series of historical fantasy novels, The Sundering epic fantasy duology and postmodern fables Santa Olivia and Saints Astray . Jacqueline enjoys doing research on a wide variety of arcane topics, and an affinity for travel has taken her from Finland to China. She currently lives in west Michigan. Although often asked by inquiring fans, she does not, in fact, have any tattoos. One It was an idyllic summer evening in Pemkowet the night the Vanderhei kid died. No one could have guessed that the town was hovering on the brink of tragedy. Well, I suppose that”s not technically true. The Sphinx might have known, and the Norns, too, come to think of it. But if they did, they kept it to themselves. There”s some sort of Soothsayers” Code that prevents soothsayers from soothsaying on a day-to-day basis, when it might, you know, avert this kind of ordinary, everyday tragedy. Something about the laws of causality being broken and the order of creation overturned, resulting in a world run amok, rivers running backward, the sun rising in the west, cats and dogs getting married. . . . I don”t know; don”t ask me. I don”t pretend to understand, especially since it wasn”t an ordinary, everyday tragedy after all. But I guess it didn”t rise to the standard required to break the Soothsayers” Code, since no sooth was said. Anyway, I”m getting ahead of myself. So, it was an idyllic evening in Pemkowet, the little resort town I call home. A mid-July Michigan evening, soft and warm, not too muggy, one of those evenings when the sunlight promises to linger forever. It was a Sunday, and I had plans to meet my best friend, Jen Cassopolis, for Music in the Gazebo. Los Gatos del Sol, a Tex-Mex band, were playing. They say music hath charms to soothe the savage breast, and in my experience, it”s true. Also, I”d seen the promo poster, and the guys in the band were pretty cute. Hey, it doesn”t hurt. Mogwai didn”t come when I called him, but he was a cat of independent means and he”d been pissed at me since I”d given in to pleas from my friends in animal rescue and had him neutered. I”d hated to do it, since he wasn”t really my cat so much as a streetwise buddy who dropped by on a regular basis, but there were an awful lot of feral Moglets running around town. I filled his bowl on the back porch and made sure the torn screen that served as a cat door was ajar. It wasn”t the most secure arrangement, but I didn”t worry too much. For one thing, my apartment was on the second story above Mrs. Browne”s Olde World Bakery. Mogwai”s route to the screened porch involved a series of feline acrobatics, Dumpster to fence to porch, that I doubted many humans could duplicate. As for nonhumans . . . well. Those who were my friends, I trusted. As far as I knew, those who weren”t didn”t want much of anything to do with me. I slung my folding chair in the carrying case over my shoulder, locked the apartment behind me, and headed down the stairs into the alley alongside the park. In front of the bakery, there was a line of tourists spilling out the door and down the sidewalk. There always was at this time of year. Most locals would avoid the place until after Labor Day. It was quiet in the rear of the bakery. That was where the magic happened, but it happened in the wee h