Into the Mystic –
The third book in the Lance Underphal mystery series, Grey Daze, is another hardcore paranormal mystery. While still a murder mystery, it’s completely different from the first two mystery books.
The polished manuscript is in the editing phase, about ready to be shipped off to my editor, Linda Seed and my first “Alpha” readers.
Denice Duff sent me the proofs from the photo shoot for the book cover. This is one of the top selections for Lance’s new love interest, Callie.
Lance Underphal’s Vision –
From the beginning of the second chapter, entitled “Waking Up”
“Soleri wind bells and a hummingbird feeder’s flowers twirl from the porch’s rough-cut eaves as a light wind wheezes through the window screens. Its dry breath carries the spicy scent of a dusty desert day, fluttering the open pages of a dog-eared Popular Photography on the counter.
Snoring in my plush recliner, I’m blissfully unaware of life’s mysteries unfolding.
It’s all white except for naked trees and grey light. Still and frozen like a perfect image etched in frosted glass. The snow, crystalline powder piled up in mounds, spread along the riverbanks like a sparkling blanket of diamonds—the river, a mirror of blue ice. A hush as thick as the snow. Tiny flakes of icy fluff fill the air before my eyes. The only sounds are the hiss of my blades slicing virgin ice and my lungs pumping frosty breaths into a streaming cloud behind me like a quietly thundering locomotive. Pushing, my eyes water with the cold, blood pounding in my ears as my thighs burn. I glide into its beauty, nature’s elements in perfect balance, exhilarated as I rush into the outstretched arms of God.
Smiling and spent, I circle back, convinced this is as much of God as I’ll ever know. I soon see our cabin up ahead, buried up to the window frames in drifted snow. Its roof, a steeple of purest white—a curl of smoke drifting up from its chimney to disappear into the haze. It’s early, I wonder if she’s up yet. I want to tell her how beautiful it all is. Beaming, I lean into it. Can’t wait to see her.
I quietly hang my skates on a peg in the mudroom, careful not to wake her. Cringing as the hinges creak, I try to be quiet. Something’s wrong. As I pad softly across the cold flagstone, I hear her weeping. She’s on her knees, hunched over in the middle of the room, her back to me, facing the fireplace. Something’s very wrong. I want to rush to her, but I can’t. I force myself to take a step closer, then another. In a hoarse whisper, I say, “Callie?” She lets out a mournful wail from deep within as she turns to me, our infant son in her arms, blue and still. I reel from the blow. How can this be? We don’t have a son.”
Copyright © 2014 by Michael Allan Scott, all rights reserved.
More to follow …
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