Free Dark Currents by Jacqueline Carey Page A

Left to their own devices and provided the appropriate offerings—in Mrs. Browne’s case, a fully stocked and prepped bakery kitchen—brownies are benevolent, domestic souls. When threatened, they can and will defend their chosen household with the strength of ten.
    “Daisy, lass.” She lowered her broom, her expression easing. “Are ye well?”
    “I’m fine, Mrs. Browne. Did you see what it was?”
    She shook her head. “I heard the ruckus and came a-running.” Her broad nostrils flared. “Mortal by the smell o’ him, with a skinful o’ beer.” She pointed toward the west end of the alley, where it curved past the Christian Science church. “He went thataway. Do ye reckon it were just a burglar or a creepin’ Tom?”
    There was a soft thud from that direction, then a movement in the shadows that made me jump. Mogwai stalked out, his fur bristling.
    I relaxed. “I don’t know. I’d like to think so, but . . .”
    “But there’s ill doin’s afoot.” Mrs. Browne peered at me beneath her furrowed brow, her deep-set eyes as dark as bog water. “Have ye spoken to the nixies yet?”
    “Not yet.” Nixies fell into the same category as naiads and undines. “I’ll go at dawn.”
    She patted my hand. “I’ve a nice tray of buns fresh from the oven. Come inside and have one, child. It will help settle your nerves.”
    It wasn’t an offer anyone in their right mind would refuse, no matter what the circumstances. Pocketing my phone, I followed her in through the back door of the kitchen, Mogwai winding around my ankles.
    I perched on a stool, nibbling on the warm cinnamon bun Mrs. Browne gave me. Trust me: If you think you know what heaven in the form of a fresh cinnamon bun tastes like, you’re mistaken. This was cloud-light and soft as a pillow, laced with subtle layers of butter and cinnamon, just the right amount of icing melting atop it, miles away from the immense, glutinous blobs of dough drenched in cloyingly sweet icing you get at those Cinnabon franchises that permeate malls and airports. Aside from inducing a passing concern that I might be succumbing to gluttony, it did indeed help settle my nerves.
    “Do ye reckon this was about the boy who was killed?” Mrs. Browne asked, pouring some cream into a bowl for Mogwai. He lapped it eagerly.
    I took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Do you know for a fact he was killed?”
    “Nay.” Her look turned shrewd. “But I know for a fact you’d not be looking into it if there weren’t somewhat off about the boy’s death. The regular police, aye. Not you, Daisy, lass.”
    I took another bite. “It may be nothing. But if you hear anything about it in the community, you’ll let me know?”
    Mrs. Browne huffed. “Don’t go offendin’ me, now! Of course I will. But no one I’ve spoken to knows aught.” She upended a large bowl of bread dough onto the counter, dusted her strong, nut-brown hands with flour, and began pummeling the yeasty mass. “You do know your dear mother’s worried about you?”
    “I know.” Smiling, I finished my cinnamon bun. “That’s why she’s got you looking out for me, isn’t it?”
    She didn’t return my smile. “You be careful, child. I do what I can to protect my own here.” She waved one floury hand in the direction of the door. “There’s naught I can do out there.”
    Hopping down from the stool, I kissed her wizened cheek. “I know, Mrs. B. Thank you. If you hear something out back in a few minutes, it’s just me.”
    She huffed again, flapping her hand at me. “Go on with ye, then.”
    With Mogwai trotting at my heels, I went upstairs to fetch my flashlight, then back downstairs to have a look around.
    There was a dent in the plastic lid of the bakery’s Dumpster. Scanning the ground beneath it with the beam of my flashlight, I made out the faint impression of a footprint in the dusty patch between the alley and the Dumpster. It was facing away from, not toward, the disposal unit.
    Someone had