Don’t miss this intriguing and climactic conclusion to the Blur Trilogy.
As Daniel Byers prepares to attend a basketball camp before his senior year of high school, the terrifying blurs that’ve plagued him for the last nine months return.
Release Date: May 24th, 2016
Don’t miss this intriguing and climactic conclusion to the Blur Trilogy.
As Daniel Byers prepares to attend a basketball camp before his senior year of high school, the terrifying blurs that’ve plagued him for the last nine months return.
Dark images begin to haunt him—creatures crawling from the deepest pits of his nightmares, glimmers of chilling memories from his early childhood. But before he can unearth the meaning behind his mysterious hallucinations, Daniel must team up with two other extraordinary teens to save a young woman who has been abducted by a scientist obsessed with enacting his own warped form of justice.
This atmospheric mystery picks up where Fury left off and takes readers into the uncharted regions where reality and madness intertwine.
"This third book in the Blur Trilogy brings the underlying storyline of Daniel Byers to an exciting head. [...] This is definitely a young adult book, but as an adult, I enjoyed it too. It has plenty of action, actually nonstop action, without all the wordy details that the adult books like to throw at you. Some series you can join in the middle and be fine, but this is not one of them; please read them all in order. You’ll want to read the entire series anyway as all the books are very good." - Goodreads, Mary
EXCERPT
CHAPTER ONE
FRIDAY, JUNE 7
COUNTY HIGHWAY G
5 MILES OUTSIDE OF BELDON, WISCONSIN
Dusk. The forest, thick on each side of the road, lies caught in the deep shadows of the coming night. Lake Algonquin sits nestled among them.
A net of darkness settles across the woods.
Though I’m driving, there’s no traffic and I’m alone in the car, so I sneak a quick glance at my phone.
No texts from Kyle.
His house is exactly eight miles from the corner up ahead, so at this speed I’ll be there in just under twelve minutes and forty seconds.
I don’t even have to consciously think about it. Math comes naturally to me. Sometimes it’s helpful. Sometimes it’s just annoying.
We’re going to spend some time planning for our upcoming trip to Georgia next Saturday.
In my headlights, I glimpse movement ahead of me on the right side of the road and I brake.
Two skittish whitetail deer stare at the car, then bound in front me. I wait for them to clear, make sure there aren’t any more coming, then pull forward.
Two weeks ago when I received the invitation to the basketball camp in Atlanta, I was surprised. I’d had a good season, but it’s an elite camp and usually fills up early, so just getting an invite was a big deal. But since it was half- way across the country, getting there was going to be a challenge.
Because of their work schedules, neither of my parents could take me.
Apparently, there was some anonymous donor who gave money to cover the tuition and travel costs of students from out of state to help assure “diversity.”
At first we weren’t sure if the camp scholarship was legit, but everything cleared, my coach told me it wasn’t breaking any college recruitment rules, and I sent in my registration. But there was still the issue of getting down there.
The camp is at Northern Georgia Tech, a private university just outside of Atlanta.
Not a short trip from Beldon, Wisconsin. Right around eighteen hours, actually. Then Kyle’s girlfriend, Mia, mentioned that she had an aunt in Atlanta whose house wasn’t too far from the cam- pus and it got us thinking.
Dad told us his college roommate lived half an hour south of Champaign, Illinois, which is about halfway down there. After he brought that up, things came together quickly. Kyle, Mia, and Nicole, the girl I was dating, would go down with me.
All of us are rising seniors, getting ready for our last year of high school. Three of us are seventeen, but Mia is eighteen and that helped our case.
Her aunt could show everyone else around Atlanta while I was at the camp. Just the right amount of freedom for us and the right amount of supervision for our parents.
Ground rules: Check in every day. No drinking. No drugs. Nothing stupid.
The first three, no problem. That last one might take a little more work. Now, as I come around a curve that follows the shore-line of the lake, I catch sight of some movement again, about a hundred feet away.
I slow to a stop. But this time it’s not a deer. A little boy emerges from the woods. He’s maybe five or six years old and seems distracted as he wanders to the middle of the county highway.
He stops at the centerline.
I wait to see if his mom or someone will follow after him, but after a moment it’s clear that he’s alone.
I let the car idle, then, stepping out, I call to him, “Hey, are you okay?”
The summer day has cooled off. There’s a slight chill in the air.
Crickets chatter in the shadows.
After a quick glance toward the forest, the boy faces me. Pale complexion—even in the dim light I can make that much out. He reaches one hand toward me as if he some- how wants me to hold it from this distance, but he doesn’t leave the road.
Beyond him, around the bend, headlights cut through the darkening day and the rumble of a logging truck rolls toward us from the direction of the sawmill.
I start the boy’s way. “You need to get off the road.” He doesn’t move. As I get nearer, although I can’t place him, I have the sense that I’ve seen him before. “Hurry!”
Nothing. The truck doesn’t slow. Now I’m running. Its headlights come sharply into view, glaring toward me, backlighting the boy. As it barrels toward us, I yell again for him to move. His back is still turned to the logging truck as he stands completely still with that one arm held out to me.
“Hey!” I gesture wildly. “Get off the road!” He stays there, but lifts the other arm. Both hands outstretched now. He wants you to help him.
He needs you to save him.
I bolt as fast as I can toward the oncoming truck to sweep the boy into my arms and get him to safety.
My mind is calculating speed, distance. Math. Second nature. There isn’t time to get there and save him. Yes there is. There has to be.
Go!
I do.
The driver blares his horn and slams on the brakes, but he’s going too fast and there’s no way he’ll be able to stop in time. The sharp smell of burning rubber fills the air. As the cab begins to slow, the truck bed, which is loaded with logs, starts sliding sideways along the road.
When I’m just a few strides away from the boy, he finally looks over his shoulder at the truck.
I throw out an arm to pick him up, but my hand passes through empty air.
I spin to see how I could’ve missed him, and my back is to the truck as it clips my left side and launches me into the air toward the ditch.
Time somehow slows and slurs around me while I’m in midair. The night becomes liquid and I’m aware of the cool evening air brushing against my face, of the rich scent of pine trees surrounding the road, of the sound of the wail- ing brakes. The glaring sweep of the headlights. The rocky ground beneath me. Coming closer.
Time collapses. Rips forward.
Impact.
I careen down the embankment, rolling toward the lake until I smash into a tree and come to an abrupt stop about fifteen feet from the road.
Breathe, breathe, breathe. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. It should hurt. It will hurt, but right now adrenaline is blocking the pain—during all my years of playing football I’ve taken my share of hits. I know how this works.
But right now, I don’t care about any of that. All I can think of is the boy. You didn’t get to him. You missed him. He’s gone. My left arm hangs loose and useless from a dislocated shoulder. It’s happened to me before in football and every time it does, seeing it like that is pretty shocking, but the pain hasn’t quite registered yet.
I get to my feet and scramble up the bank toward the pavement.
The logging truck has skidded past me and finally come to a stop. One of the straps holding the logs in place must have snapped because the logs have spilled sideways off the bed and are strewn across the road, blocking it.
Terrified of what I might see, I scan the pavement, but can’t find the boy. No blood. No sign of a body. I gaze into the ditch I landed in.
It’s shrouded in lengthening shadows, but from where I’m standing I can’t see the boy—or what might have been left of him if he was hit by that truck.
My ankle got wrenched when I landed and as I take a wobbly step forward to study the other side of the road, it buckles. I collapse and the driver of the logging truck comes hurrying toward me.
“You okay?” he shouts.
Using only one arm, it’s tough to push myself to my feet again, but I manage. “Did you hit him?”
“Who?” “The boy. The little boy.” “What boy?” He stares at me dumbfounded. A mixture of confusion and fear. “We’re the only ones out here. You came running at my truck. What happened to your arm?”
“No, no, no. The boy who was in the road.”
“Listen, I’m telling you, there wasn’t anyone else. Just you. What’d you think you were doing?” He offers a hand to steady me. “You could’ve been killed. Are you okay?”
I take a step, but lose my balance again and barely catch myself from falling by grabbing his arm.
“We need to get you to a hospital. Is your shoulder . . . ?” “Dislocated. I’m okay.” “You shouldn’t be walking around.” “We have to find the boy.”
The pain is finally tightening around me. I gaze at that left arm. By the awkward angle, anyone could see that things aren’t right. The last time this happened the physical therapist told me it might sublux again.
So. His prediction came true.
Either I get it back in place myself or I wait for a doctor to do it—and it’s going to hurt just as much then. And in the meantime the tissue will continue to swell, so it’ll only get harder to pop back into place if I wait.
“Help me,” I say to the driver. “I need to get to your truck.”
He tells me once more that I shouldn’t be walking around, but when I start limping forward, he joins me, sup- porting my good arm.
We arrive at the flatbed and I wedge my left wrist into a gap between the boards on the back.
Okay, this is really not going to feel good. The man gasps. “What are you doing?” “Traction. I have to get . . .” I clench my teeth and lean backward.
A sharp explosion of pain. I almost collapse. But, I didn’t go back far enough. The shoulder remains out of its socket.
Relax. You need to relax the muscles. It’s the only way it’ll go back in place.
“Give me a sec.” I take a deep breath, close my eyes, ready myself, and pull back again, harder. I twist slightly and finally, after what seems like the longest three seconds of my life, the shoulder grinds as it slides back into place. There’s a shot of relief but, at the same time, a wave of a heavier, duller kind of pain.
The driver’s face blanches. “Did you just . . . ?” “Yeah.”
I use my right hand to support the weak arm and to keep it from swinging. Based on how things went the last time this happened, it’s going to be sore for a couple weeks at least.
“You might have internal injuries.” The man produces a cell phone and punches in 911. “You should lie down until help gets here.”
“We need to find the boy.”
Finally, he gives in. “Listen. I’ll look for him. But you, rest.”
When dispatch picks up, I say to the driver, “Tell them I’m Daniel Byers. They’ll know who I am.”
“They will?” “Yeah. My dad’s the sheriff.”
FRIDAY, JUNE 7
COUNTY HIGHWAY G
5 MILES OUTSIDE OF BELDON, WISCONSIN
Dusk. The forest, thick on each side of the road, lies caught in the deep shadows of the coming night. Lake Algonquin sits nestled among them.
A net of darkness settles across the woods.
Though I’m driving, there’s no traffic and I’m alone in the car, so I sneak a quick glance at my phone.
No texts from Kyle.
His house is exactly eight miles from the corner up ahead, so at this speed I’ll be there in just under twelve minutes and forty seconds.
I don’t even have to consciously think about it. Math comes naturally to me. Sometimes it’s helpful. Sometimes it’s just annoying.
We’re going to spend some time planning for our upcoming trip to Georgia next Saturday.
In my headlights, I glimpse movement ahead of me on the right side of the road and I brake.
Two skittish whitetail deer stare at the car, then bound in front me. I wait for them to clear, make sure there aren’t any more coming, then pull forward.
Two weeks ago when I received the invitation to the basketball camp in Atlanta, I was surprised. I’d had a good season, but it’s an elite camp and usually fills up early, so just getting an invite was a big deal. But since it was half- way across the country, getting there was going to be a challenge.
Because of their work schedules, neither of my parents could take me.
Apparently, there was some anonymous donor who gave money to cover the tuition and travel costs of students from out of state to help assure “diversity.”
At first we weren’t sure if the camp scholarship was legit, but everything cleared, my coach told me it wasn’t breaking any college recruitment rules, and I sent in my registration. But there was still the issue of getting down there.
The camp is at Northern Georgia Tech, a private university just outside of Atlanta.
Not a short trip from Beldon, Wisconsin. Right around eighteen hours, actually. Then Kyle’s girlfriend, Mia, mentioned that she had an aunt in Atlanta whose house wasn’t too far from the cam- pus and it got us thinking.
Dad told us his college roommate lived half an hour south of Champaign, Illinois, which is about halfway down there. After he brought that up, things came together quickly. Kyle, Mia, and Nicole, the girl I was dating, would go down with me.
All of us are rising seniors, getting ready for our last year of high school. Three of us are seventeen, but Mia is eighteen and that helped our case.
Her aunt could show everyone else around Atlanta while I was at the camp. Just the right amount of freedom for us and the right amount of supervision for our parents.
Ground rules: Check in every day. No drinking. No drugs. Nothing stupid.
The first three, no problem. That last one might take a little more work. Now, as I come around a curve that follows the shore-line of the lake, I catch sight of some movement again, about a hundred feet away.
I slow to a stop. But this time it’s not a deer. A little boy emerges from the woods. He’s maybe five or six years old and seems distracted as he wanders to the middle of the county highway.
He stops at the centerline.
I wait to see if his mom or someone will follow after him, but after a moment it’s clear that he’s alone.
I let the car idle, then, stepping out, I call to him, “Hey, are you okay?”
The summer day has cooled off. There’s a slight chill in the air.
Crickets chatter in the shadows.
After a quick glance toward the forest, the boy faces me. Pale complexion—even in the dim light I can make that much out. He reaches one hand toward me as if he some- how wants me to hold it from this distance, but he doesn’t leave the road.
Beyond him, around the bend, headlights cut through the darkening day and the rumble of a logging truck rolls toward us from the direction of the sawmill.
I start the boy’s way. “You need to get off the road.” He doesn’t move. As I get nearer, although I can’t place him, I have the sense that I’ve seen him before. “Hurry!”
Nothing. The truck doesn’t slow. Now I’m running. Its headlights come sharply into view, glaring toward me, backlighting the boy. As it barrels toward us, I yell again for him to move. His back is still turned to the logging truck as he stands completely still with that one arm held out to me.
“Hey!” I gesture wildly. “Get off the road!” He stays there, but lifts the other arm. Both hands outstretched now. He wants you to help him.
He needs you to save him.
I bolt as fast as I can toward the oncoming truck to sweep the boy into my arms and get him to safety.
My mind is calculating speed, distance. Math. Second nature. There isn’t time to get there and save him. Yes there is. There has to be.
Go!
I do.
The driver blares his horn and slams on the brakes, but he’s going too fast and there’s no way he’ll be able to stop in time. The sharp smell of burning rubber fills the air. As the cab begins to slow, the truck bed, which is loaded with logs, starts sliding sideways along the road.
When I’m just a few strides away from the boy, he finally looks over his shoulder at the truck.
I throw out an arm to pick him up, but my hand passes through empty air.
I spin to see how I could’ve missed him, and my back is to the truck as it clips my left side and launches me into the air toward the ditch.
Time somehow slows and slurs around me while I’m in midair. The night becomes liquid and I’m aware of the cool evening air brushing against my face, of the rich scent of pine trees surrounding the road, of the sound of the wail- ing brakes. The glaring sweep of the headlights. The rocky ground beneath me. Coming closer.
Time collapses. Rips forward.
Impact.
I careen down the embankment, rolling toward the lake until I smash into a tree and come to an abrupt stop about fifteen feet from the road.
Breathe, breathe, breathe. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. It should hurt. It will hurt, but right now adrenaline is blocking the pain—during all my years of playing football I’ve taken my share of hits. I know how this works.
But right now, I don’t care about any of that. All I can think of is the boy. You didn’t get to him. You missed him. He’s gone. My left arm hangs loose and useless from a dislocated shoulder. It’s happened to me before in football and every time it does, seeing it like that is pretty shocking, but the pain hasn’t quite registered yet.
I get to my feet and scramble up the bank toward the pavement.
The logging truck has skidded past me and finally come to a stop. One of the straps holding the logs in place must have snapped because the logs have spilled sideways off the bed and are strewn across the road, blocking it.
Terrified of what I might see, I scan the pavement, but can’t find the boy. No blood. No sign of a body. I gaze into the ditch I landed in.
It’s shrouded in lengthening shadows, but from where I’m standing I can’t see the boy—or what might have been left of him if he was hit by that truck.
My ankle got wrenched when I landed and as I take a wobbly step forward to study the other side of the road, it buckles. I collapse and the driver of the logging truck comes hurrying toward me.
“You okay?” he shouts.
Using only one arm, it’s tough to push myself to my feet again, but I manage. “Did you hit him?”
“Who?” “The boy. The little boy.” “What boy?” He stares at me dumbfounded. A mixture of confusion and fear. “We’re the only ones out here. You came running at my truck. What happened to your arm?”
“No, no, no. The boy who was in the road.”
“Listen, I’m telling you, there wasn’t anyone else. Just you. What’d you think you were doing?” He offers a hand to steady me. “You could’ve been killed. Are you okay?”
I take a step, but lose my balance again and barely catch myself from falling by grabbing his arm.
“We need to get you to a hospital. Is your shoulder . . . ?” “Dislocated. I’m okay.” “You shouldn’t be walking around.” “We have to find the boy.”
The pain is finally tightening around me. I gaze at that left arm. By the awkward angle, anyone could see that things aren’t right. The last time this happened the physical therapist told me it might sublux again.
So. His prediction came true.
Either I get it back in place myself or I wait for a doctor to do it—and it’s going to hurt just as much then. And in the meantime the tissue will continue to swell, so it’ll only get harder to pop back into place if I wait.
“Help me,” I say to the driver. “I need to get to your truck.”
He tells me once more that I shouldn’t be walking around, but when I start limping forward, he joins me, sup- porting my good arm.
We arrive at the flatbed and I wedge my left wrist into a gap between the boards on the back.
Okay, this is really not going to feel good. The man gasps. “What are you doing?” “Traction. I have to get . . .” I clench my teeth and lean backward.
A sharp explosion of pain. I almost collapse. But, I didn’t go back far enough. The shoulder remains out of its socket.
Relax. You need to relax the muscles. It’s the only way it’ll go back in place.
“Give me a sec.” I take a deep breath, close my eyes, ready myself, and pull back again, harder. I twist slightly and finally, after what seems like the longest three seconds of my life, the shoulder grinds as it slides back into place. There’s a shot of relief but, at the same time, a wave of a heavier, duller kind of pain.
The driver’s face blanches. “Did you just . . . ?” “Yeah.”
I use my right hand to support the weak arm and to keep it from swinging. Based on how things went the last time this happened, it’s going to be sore for a couple weeks at least.
“You might have internal injuries.” The man produces a cell phone and punches in 911. “You should lie down until help gets here.”
“We need to find the boy.”
Finally, he gives in. “Listen. I’ll look for him. But you, rest.”
When dispatch picks up, I say to the driver, “Tell them I’m Daniel Byers. They’ll know who I am.”
“They will?” “Yeah. My dad’s the sheriff.”
About the author:
Best known for his high-octane thrillers, Steven James is the award-winning author of eleven suspense novels. The Blur Trilogy is his first mystery series for teens. Steven has taught creative writing around the world and loves rock climbing, science fiction movies, and chicken fajitas. Find him at:
Author's Giveaway
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It would be great to win
ReplyDeletea copy of Curse by Steven James.
This sounds like a book i would enjoy reading.
Thank you for having this giveaway.