Nordic Noir Novels & Stories

He towers over me, gun still trained on my chest. The North… the cold… Could I be somewhere in northern Italy? It’s the only thing that makes sense. Stories flood my mind, stories every southern girl grows up hearing. The syndicates that rule the North don’t bicker and fight like the gangs in Sicily. No, they work as a single machine, every organization bowing to one name: Il Noce—The Walnut. And him? His words, his fury, his cold eyes tell me everything I need to know. He’s one of them.

I have only 3 days left before miss Lauretta throws me out. I went to collect the bill for his meal,his girlfriend is a talkative. She talks like a parrot,I made to collect it as soon as my hands touched his,I felt a tingling sensation, I quickly took the money and left. He stood up and left. I counted the money,while counting it I saw a note.. "COUNTRY CITY MALL...7PM" Oh my god he left a note,he wanted to see me. I contemplated going. I didn't know him enough but, risks are meant to be taken .

"I am the Alpha of The Winterborn Pack and from a long line of Royals, as well. I wanted to take a Mate of Royal blood, as well. When I heard of Kalyssa, I knew she was the one." "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm already taken," I said, trying to make light of the comment, but no one seemed to find it funny. I took a sip of my wine and swallowed, knowing this was going to be a long night. "So, where is your pack located?" "In northern Alaska on the sea." Rolph smiled longingly as he gazed into my eyes, appearing to be already half in love with me. "And you're an Arctic Wolf, as well?"

The steam from his coffee curdled. ​"She found the hidden folder, Nora," the man whispered, his eyes darting toward the violet shadows. "She found the 300,000 words. She thinks I spent too much time perfecting your 'Soul' and not enough time on our 'Reality'." ​[GENRE SHIFT: DOMESTIC NOIR / META-VENDETTA.] [THREAT LEVEL: PERSONAL.] ​The Arrival of the Shadow-Author

Don had placed a paperweight on the page—a small stone from the beach in Portugal, the one they had brought back as a souvenir, the one that lived on Don's desk and held down maps and papers that needed holding. Don had three books by the end of the week. Ernest knew this because of the deliveries—the familiar pattern of the arrival of the programme. The books came in the post, in padded envelopes and small boxes, and Don would open each one with the specific quality of someone who was building a foundation. The books were different from the Greece books in subject and quality: one was about the Norse relationship to winter and darkness, a cultural history of how the people of the far north

Black as the darkest night hair against a crisp linen pillow, brown skin against a blindingly white sheet, and tiger’s eyes burning with deliberate cruelty and triumph into hers. In horrified rejection of the imagery that had sprung into her mind, Lara Anderson shuddered violently, dimly aware that she was still in the grip of severe shock. Abruptly, she was dredged from her turmoil by the insistent shrill of the telephone in the hall. Reluctantly she answered the summons, carefully shutting the lounge door behind her so that her father was not disturbed.

"Maybe 'quirky cozy' is out. Maybe gritty Nordic noir is in. I should have set it in a fjord. With a depressed detective and a lot of rain." "Your detective is a retired surgeon who misplaces his reading glasses," I reminded him, sipping my coffee. "He'd get lost in a fjord and accidentally solve a tourism board embezzlement scheme instead." Arthur pointed a butter knife at me. "That's not bad. A crossover series. The Fjord Frauds. I'll make a note." His phone buzzed. He snatched it up, his face undergoing a rapid journey from terror to disbelief to unadulterated joy. He let out a whoop that startled a gull off our deck railing.

Runes faintly glowed along the cracked walls, pulsing like veins of fire. Shadows shifted in the corners until figures emerged, cloaked and hooded. One by one, they stepped into the faint glow of broken chandeliers above. Nora counted seven. Each moved with the kind of poise that spoke of centuries of survival. Her hand brushed instinctively against the dagger at her hip, though she knew steel meant little here. The first of them spoke, voice dry like parchment. “Nora Ainsley. Rogue-born. Tracker. Murder suspect.” The words stung, but Nora lifted her chin. They want me to break before this even begins.

Dark of Night Copyright 2019 Emily Goodwin Chapter One “What do you see when you look at this one?” The doctor holds up a card, showcasing an ink splotch that’s twisted and creepy, with eyes that follow you no matter where you go. I look at it, heart hammering away inside my chest. The mess of ink on the white paper reminds me of the monster that lurks in Nana and Papa’s basement, the one that tried to get Abby and Scott to go downstairs with it.