“I pick up Mollenkamp.” He pointed at me. “You call Amanda Brooks at the PVB—remember?”

Double crap! I’d managed to forget that particular assignment. “Don’t you think the chief would think this was more important?” I asked hopefully.

“No.” Cody squashed my hopes without a trace of remorse. “I don’t. And I think it would be better to spring you on Mollenkamp after we’ve had a chance to question him for a bit. I don’t imagine he’ll be a particularly cooperative witness, since he’s not going to be eager to implicate himself in this. Let the element of surprise work for us.”

“Okay, fine.” With a sigh, I fished my phone out of my purse.

Despite my fondest wishes, Amanda Brooks took my call immediately and asked in a brisk, no-nonsense tone if I could meet with her in her office in half an hour, and despite my deepest reluctance, I agreed.

And in the midst of our brief discussion, Stefan Ludovic took the opportunity to make his exit.

“Damn.” Ending the call, I gazed after the vanishing taillight of his Harley. “Where’s he going?”

Cody shrugged. “Places to go, people to feed on. Does it matter?”

“It might.” I gave him a sharp look. “I would have liked to know more about why Mary Sudbury has him worried.”

“I have a feeling the word ravening plays into it.” Cody allowed himself another brief shudder, shaking off the last remaining dregs of Emma Sudbury’s misery. “Come on, Pixy Stix. I’ll give you a ride to your car. I want to swing by Jerry Dunham’s and confirm it for myself before I head up to Appeldoorn.”

Approximately half an hour later, I pulled into the little parking lot of the Pemkowet Visitors Bureau.

It was a quaint, shingle-sided building situated on riverfront property along the main entrance to the downtown. Inside, the decor was modern and streamlined, everything designed to suggest a tasteful degree of wealth and sophistication unusual for your average small Midwestern town. Glossy magazine-size visitors’ guides were spread across the low table in the reception area, featuring a darling blond toddler in a sun hat engrossed in building a sandcastle, the sparkling waters of Lake Michigan beckoning in the background.

On the downside, my old high school tormentor Stacey Brooks was seated at the sleek front desk, speaking ostentatiously into a wireless headset perched atop her cascading ash-brown curls, a little blue light blinking on the earpiece. She glanced at me with a look of disdain, raising one finger in a dismissive wait-a-minute gesture.

On the plus side, there was a visitor seated in the reception area, and he was cute. Short dreads, high, roundish cheekbones, cocoa-dark skin, maybe a year or two older than me. Definitely not a local or I would have known him. He nodded at dauda-dagr with a cheerful grin and greeted me in a Jamaican accent. “Nice cutlass, sistah.”

My hand fell to the hilt. “Thanks.”

“You have much call to use it, do you?” He sounded amused, and I felt self-conscious. Funny how a cute guy checking out your magic dagger can have that effect.

“I hope not.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head back, appraising me, his grin giving way to a curious look. I felt the slightest tingle of otherness, so slight it was barely there. He was human, all right—there was no glamour to see through—but there was definitely the faintest hint of the eldritch, like shadow cast from afar, the way it did with certain people.

Behind the front desk, Stacey Brooks cleared her throat. Apparently she’d concluded her important call. “Hel-lo? Daisy, my mother’s ready for you. She’s very busy, you know.”

I leveled a stare at her. “Look, I didn’t ask for this meeting.”

Stacey sniffed through her pert, perfect nose. “Do you actually think she did?” she asked in a snide tone. “Chief Bryant passed her on to you when she called him. That man is so going to lose his job. You’re lucky there are people like my mother who truly care about this town.”

I bit my tongue. “I’m sure—”

She tapped her headset, her voice turning chipper. “Pemkowet Visitors Bureau! How can we brighten your day?”

Oh, gah.

Amanda Brooks emerged from her office. She was one of those whippet-thin older women with clavicle bones that looked sharp enough to cut glass. Actually, she reminded me a bit of Thad Vanderhei’s mother, only instead of brittle fragility, she radiated a tightly wound intensity. Her hair was the same ash-brown hue as her daughter’s, augmented with blond highlights, but like Sue Vanderhei’s it was drawn back in a bun so tight it had to tug on her scalp. Maybe it served as a temporary face-lift. She regarded me through a pair of chunky, retro-chic, expensive-looking glasses, looking me up and down. “Daisy Johanssen?”

You would think that since her daughter was responsible for getting me suspended from school, she might remember me, right? I mean, there were forty-seven people in my graduating class, and the other forty-six were fully human. But I made myself answer politely. “How can I help you, Ms. Brooks?”

Her expression suggested she doubted I could. “Come into my office, won’t you?” She turned toward the cute guy. “I’ll be with you in a short while, Mr. Palmer. Thank you for your patience.”

He shrugged, tapping a fist to his chest and giving her a charming smile. “No haste, mother. All respect.”

Amanda Brooks flushed slightly before ushering me into her office and closing the door behind us. She took a seat behind her desk.

I took a seat opposite her, facing the river. If it were my office, I’d have arranged it to have the river view myself, but I suppose it was all the better to impress visitors. Amanda Brooks was clearly willing to sacrifice on behalf of her job.

She leaned forward, bracing her forearms on the desk. “Let me cut to the chase, Daisy. We’re in the midst of a publicity crisis here.”

“I know.”

She gave me a tight, grim smile. “I’m not sure you do. We’ve had cancellations. Bookings are down. Business owners are panicking. There’s a growing perception that Pemkowet isn’t a safe destination for paranormal tourism.”

“That’s because it’s not,” I said. “It never has been.”

“With a little more cooperation, it could be.” With laserlike focus, Amanda Brooks studied me through the lenses of her chic glasses. “According to Chief Bryant, you’re the designated liaison to the eldritch community, and unlikely as it seems, it appears that it’s you I need to talk to.”

For that, I could have throttled the chief. “He may have overstated the case,” I said. “I’m Hel’s liaison. It doesn’t mean I represent the entire eldritch community.”

Her gaze was unblinking. “But you represent Hel’s authority?” she asked. I nodded. “Do you have credentials? A license?”

“No.” My tail twitched. “Not one you can see, anyway. But I have a dagger no one else can wield. Hel gave it to me herself with her left hand, the hand of death.” I drew dauda-dagr and reversed the blade, proffering the hilt. “Would you care to try it?”

Dauda-dagr’s blade shone in the sunlight angling off the river, silvery runes shimmering, its edges glinting blue. It felt pleasantly cold against my palm. Little wisps of frosty mist rose from it, hovering in the bright air.

Amanda Brooks shivered and shrank back, gooseflesh rising on her bare arms. “No.” Picking up a gilded letter opener, she poked at dauda-dagr like she was poking at a snake with a stick. “Put it away, please.”

I sheathed it.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” she said without preamble, recovering effortlessly. “The young man in the lobby, Mr. Palmer, has filed a request for a license to operate a tour bus in Pemkowet. A paranormal tour. And I think it’s a good idea. I think if we could guarantee sightings, benign sightings, it would do the town a world of good. It would help us weather this storm.” Her intense gaze fixed on me. “Do you agree?”

I sighed. “It’s not that easy.”

“It could be. Think of the possibilities, Daisy!” She leaned forward again. “Look at the success of Mrs. Browne’s Olde World Bakery. What if we offered a package deal with baking classes with Mrs. Browne herself?”

I shook my head. “That would never happen.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because she’s a brownie!” I said. “Brownies only offer their services at will, never on demand, and never when people are watching. Never. You can’t ask them for favors. It’s dangerous to even acknowledge them with thanks. You can’t ask them for anything. She’d vanish if you did.”

“Okay. Okay.” Amanda Brooks settled back in her chair, crossing her legs. “So help me out here. Let’s brainstorm. What will work?”

I thought over the possibilities. Closeted werewolves were out, obviously. Unless we were talking about moonlight tours, vampires were out. Lurine was too recognizable to take that kind of risk; there was no way I’d ask her. “There’s a new head ghoul in town,” I said. “He seems interested in improving their image; he might be willing to have his people work with us. Oh, and there’s Gus the ogre. I bet he’d do it if my mom asked him.”

She shuddered. “Oh, for the love of God! Were you even listening? We need benign sightings, Daisy. We need nymphs splashing in the river, playing catch with bubbles; wood nymphs flitting through the forest. We need pixies sitting on toadstools. We need pretty, sparkly fairies. We need—”

“Unicorns and rainbows?” I suggested.

Amanda Brooks raised her brows at me. “Don’t be glib. I don’t expect you to control the weather. But a unicorn would be nice, yes. Do we have any?”

“No,” I said. “Not that I’m aware of. And a lot of those pretty, sparkly fairies have sharp teeth and bad tempers. I don’t think you understand what you’re asking. The eldritch community isn’t benign. They’re not here to serve as tourist attractions. They’re here because Pemkowet has a functioning underworld, which allows them to exist in the mortal world without the risk of fading.”