A Death Displaced
(Lansin Island Series)
by Andrew Butcher
Description
A vision, an
unsuspecting woman, apparitions and an unsolved past all come together on an
island with a dark story of its own.
Nicolas Crystan
lives a stunted life; the past hangs over him, and his relationships have
broken down. On top of that, he's spiritually lost. He yearns for something
more, anything! But when a seemingly paranormal incident occurs, it doesn't
just alter his life but also the fate of an unsuspecting woman.
Juliet Maystone, a
wealthy, attractive and business-minded woman, starts seeing things that
couldn't possibly be real. She's forced to seek out help from a source she
never would have considered before: a famous medium... or as she refers to
herself: a witch.
A Death
Displaced is Book One in the
Lansin Island series, a paranormal mystery series with light romance.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
It felt so real.
Was this actually happening? His senses alleged yes, his mind suspected
no. Maybe it was a daydream or an out-of-body experience? Possibly, his
imagination was unbounded, taking flight? He pondered the matter until his
thoughts tumbled out of reach and fell so far that he no longer disputed its
reality…
The definite coolness and damp in the air left no doubt that it was early
morning. He walked towards his workplace, Creaky Crystals, in the lower grounds
of Amiton town centre, his winklepickers tip-tapping on murky cobbles.
A red-headed girl spun circles near the fountain feature and fell into
his path, causing him to side step. He apologised for the near collision and
carried on his way. The girl scurried off to her mother who was setting up a
stall for business.
He smiled. Halloween decorations filled the shop windows; an array of
ghouls, pumpkins, witches and vampires. ‘Happy Halloween’ was found in orange,
black, purple and white; and in one gruesome display, a blood-red dripping
font.
There was a lady re-arranging her window layout in preparation for
opening. She caught his eyes and gave a friendly nod. He inclined his head and
waved to her.
The morning was as peaceful as a cat asleep; or like a tortoise bathing
in the sun, it was quiet, settled.
On approach to Creaky Crystals, he spotted a seagull sat right in front
of the store. No other birds flocked overhead; none were in sight, only this
solitary seagull, squatted like it was waiting for the shop to open.
Of course, nothing was strange about seagulls in Amiton, but this one
fixedly stared; directly at him. It was so still. The eeriness of it made his
bones fidget. Stupid seagull.
The screeching of tyres came from above. He stopped his walk. His gaze
shot to the upper grounds. The seagull reacted instantly; it smoothly jumped
into flight as if it knew the harsh cries were coming.
There was no way to see the commotion from where he stood. The 50ft wall
separating the upper and lower grounds had zigzag steps up the side and a low
wall along the top to protect people from falling.
Echoes. The sounds of metal scraping, twisting, crunching. Police sirens
wailed in the distance. He couldn’t see at this angle, but he imagined that a
car had crashed into something at high speed, flipped and had begun to roll.
Then came a thud. Something finally came into view, a woman. The car must
have hit her hard. She was vaulted over the wall a great distance and fell to
the lower grounds. He saw her hit the ground. Did he hear her skull crack open
or was it her neck breaking?
He snapped out of it.
*
Whoa, he opened his eyes and had to blink a few times. That was too real, too
disturbing. It would teach him a lesson for trying to meditate at work.
He’d always been interested in meditation, out-of-body experiences and
anything and everything spiritual. But that was probably because it had
surrounded him his whole life. He didn’t even know what he was trying to
accomplish this time.
Usually it was to try to meet some kind of deity, visualise his dream
future, or ask his ‘higher self’ for guidance, but this time he just had a
disturbingly realistic daydream.
I really am screwed up, imagining a woman fall to her death.
He didn’t actually think he was screwed up; he was just Nicolas Jack
Crystan, or Nick for short, and what could he think of his life? He was
twenty-four, had no future plans, always strived for enlightenment (whatever that
was) and he worked in a crystal shop.
‘Excuse me…’ whined a lady with a scrunched-up face.
Nick’s work place was located in the corner of The Fallend in the lower
grounds, snug against the wall. The Fallend was one large shopping street with
a high wall and steps at the end leading to the upper grounds.
‘Hi, how can I help?’ Nick sat behind the counter. He tried to portray
alert-and-ready-to-serve the best he could.
‘Oh, so you are working, not just taking a nap?’ she smiled
sardonically, her sarcasm potent and ugly.
‘Sorry, it’s been a quiet day, what can I do for you?’ he couldn’t help
but observe her choice of clothing. She looked like a witch in a kids’ school
play, minus the green face paint and plus an absurd amount of jewellery. What
concerned Nick was when he realised that she was serious in her selection of
garments.
‘Do you sell any other wands?’ she asked with a widening of her eyes, ‘I
don’t like the ones on display. They don’t feel right.’
‘They are all we have in stock, sorry.’
‘You’re not going to check out the back for me?’ she asked, retracting
her head and creating a double chin.
‘I know what stock we have and there are no more wands.’
‘Can you go and check anyway, just in case you’ve missed some?’
‘No… Sorry, I’d be wasting your time.’
‘I’m not in a hurry.’ God, this woman was relentless.
‘Trust me, there’s no more stock out the back.’ he said with finality.
He caught his reflection in the shop window and ruffled his deep brown
hair, then let it settle looking stylishly dishevelled. He realised that he was
staring at the spot where he imagined the woman hit the ground. It was directly
out the front of Creaky Crystals.
‘Just so you know. The other tourist shops around here have a wider range
of items. Why is your store so limited?’ she seemed to ask with genuine
interest. Please get a life.
‘I’m sorry to hear that but my manager is happy with our range of
products. If you’re not happy then feel free to buy from those other shops you
mentioned.’ he replied, more antagonising than intended.
She huffed and declared, ‘I will shop elsewhere!’ then stormed out.
Oops, slight guilt. He hadn’t meant to upset the lady, but she was rude from
the start of the conversation and he was getting sick and tired of all these
witch wannabes waddling around Amiton.
This was something he couldn’t avoid due to the history of Lansin Island
and the fact that he worked in a tourist shop aimed at those interested in its
dark past.
Amiton was the largest town on Lansin Island and it was where all the
tourists jumped off the ferry and decided to shop. Nick liked the customers who
were interested in witchcraft and the history but he found grievance with the
witch wannabes who researched Wicca on the internet, read an article on some
naff website then declared themselves High Priestess of this, that and the
other. Some would shove their views down his throat and threaten to hex him
when his customer service skills sucked (which was most of the time).
‘Nicolas?’ her voice was delicate yet held great authority.
‘Yes, Mora?’ he spun to address her.
She was a short, plump lady in her late forties with a calm demeanour.
She had brief, cropped chocolate hair and green eyes. Her complexion was so
yellowy-white that if she lay with her eyes closed you’d think she was dead, or
at least severely ill.
‘That lady didn’t seem too impressed with you?’
‘Yeah, I suggested she shops elsewhere.’
‘You sent a customer away?’
‘She was rude to me.’
‘Okay, Nicolas, but I’d prefer it if your pride didn’t affect our profits
in the future.’ It was almost impossible to take offence to anything Mora said.
Nick knew she was a careful thinker and spoke only her mind. He liked that
about her.
‘I forgot to mention… she didn’t like your wands and she said our store
is limited compared to the others in Amiton.’
Mora’s jaw dropped.
After a moment of composing herself, she came out with, ‘Stuff her then.
The grumpy sod can shop elsewhere!’ they laughed together, but Nick couldn’t
help think, Oh, so it’s fine for your pride to affect profits!
‘Nicolas,’ Mora dawdled off and stood by the table with divination and
tarot cards stacked on top. ‘I think more items have been stolen.’ She shook
her head and compressed her lips.
‘Really?’
‘I don’t remember selling any of these today, though I could swear there
were a lot more here this morning.’
He shrugged his shoulders and wished he knew what to say. Mora toddled
back over to him rather solemnly then said, ‘Never mind. Will you keep an eye
out for me? Look out for suspicious customers.’
‘Of course.’ He gave an enthusiastic nod.
‘You can get going if you want; it’s not so busy at this time of day.
I’ll lock up and there’s not much cleaning to do,’ she scanned the store and
returned her eyes to him, ‘and don’t worry, I’ll pay you for the whole shift.’
she sweetly smiled and took his place behind the glass counter.
In comparison to Mora, Nick felt like a giant. She was maybe five feet
tall. He noticed the height difference more when she sat down. It didn't bother
him much when the other staff members were about, but when it was only him and
Mora, he felt almost obliged to slouch his posture and appear shorter.
‘Thank you, Mora. I’ll see you on Friday.’
He scuttled out the back, grabbed his jacket, and hurried out of the
store. He waved to Mora on his exit.
Two full time colleagues, Janet and Alan, worked nine to five and had
already left. As a part-timer, Nick was meant to work twelve to six and help
Mora close up. He checked the time on his mobile: Twenty past five. Not bad.
He smiled.
His black Vauxhall Corsa just about started up. He huffed when he looked
at the petrol gauge pointing below the ‘E’ as usual, conjecturing that he could
squeeze a few more drives to work and back out of it before visiting a petrol
station.
On the drive home, all he thought about was that disturbing daydream. The
sound of her hitting the ground was embedded in his mind and seemed to be on
replay.
No dreams had ever matched up to how vivid that was. Even the few lucid
ones he’d had were covered in a sense of, ‘Is this really real?’ But when he
was in this daydream… he was really there… until he wasn’t; until he snapped
back to reality. Or was that reality and this the fantasy?
Uh, head ache. He needed a hot chocolate, a warm blanket and a decent film to watch.
No gory films though.
Driving up Maw Street, he compared his house to the others. The fact that
he couldn’t see it didn’t help much. The evening had begun to darken already
and the bungalow he lived in was hidden, shrouded by trees in the front garden.
The others on the street were very presentable: groomed and freshly landscaped
front-gardens, features, and neatly gravelled driveways. Many were no longer
bungalows but had been extended upwards and outwards.
No doubts as to who the money-makers were on the street.
Most Maw Street residents were proud of their homes. It wasn’t exactly a
wealthy street to live on but it certainly wasn’t slummy either. He was pained
to know that his dwelling was the lowest valued on the street.
You just have to do something about those awful trees,
Aimee Price from number 42 once passed by to tell Nick. The American lady lived
alone and was a practicing Wiccan. She had frowned at the prevalent weeds in
the driveway and stated that his house put Maw Street to shame. Miss Price
didn’t hesitate to add that she couldn’t stand the thought of her
relatives from Los Angeles visiting and being subjected to passing his home on
the way to hers.
Nick defended that the enormous sycamore maple trees in the front garden
were practically impossible to do anything with and most of the evergreen
conifers were too tall to maintain. He couldn’t be asked to trim the shrubbery
or to de-weed the drive, and it was the Council’s job to cut the grass on the
front, but most importantly, it wasn’t any of her business.
In his head he also thought, For a Wiccan, you don’t seem to like
trees much!
His retaliation must have been unexpected. She stalked off after
mumbling, ‘I’m not the only one on this street who thinks you need to sort it
out.’
Nick signalled and pulled into his drive. An overhanging branch rattled
and scratched against the roof of his car.
Okay, maybe I should cut that branch at least.
The drive was carpeted with fallen leaves. At this time of day they were
simply shadowy mounds, but in the daylight, the red and orange maple leaves
were luscious and vibrant.
When he stepped out of the car, he grumbled at there being nowhere he
could leave his vehicle without it gathering leaves and dirt. He loved and
hated the sycamore trees, but right now, he detested their sticky sap.
He locked the car then headed inside number 16 Maw Street. The neighbours
may not have liked the trees but Nick sure liked the privacy they offered.
He was glad to be home. It was safe here.
After having a ready-made microwave meal, he flopped onto his bed. He had
no energy these days. Before he knew it, he woke up three hours later. Urgh!
Now he’d struggle sleeping tonight. To help him fall asleep, he read a
get-rich-quick book until his eyes were strained.
Wednesday morning, nothing could tempt him to leave his house, apart from
that it was probably warmer outside than it was inside. As he’d expected, it
was tough sleeping. The cold didn’t help but he couldn’t afford to put the
heating on too often.
He found a comfortable position in his room and decided to meditate. He
quickly cleared his mind and got into some rhythmic breathing. Lately he’d
become agitated by the smallest things and had boxed them off to the corner of
his mind, but now they seemed determined to claim recognition.
When he noticed how not peaceful he felt, the irritation bugged
him and the more he tried to find peace, the worse his state became.
He fidgeted.
Whatever position he sat in, it created uncomfortable tight areas from
his clothes, or he became itchy, had to scratch.
Ignore it, it will go, clear your mind.
A noise interrupted him. The wild beeping of a car horn outside. Idiots.
Drive sensibly!
He found it again, a clear mind. But then he was annoyed at himself for
thinking, ‘My mind is clear.’ Surely his mind wasn’t clear of thought if he was
thinking it was clear of thought?
Why don’t I feel peaceful?
The frustration steeped and he lost it. He picked up a smiling Buddha
ornament and smashed it against the wall. He tore down posters of tranquil
landscapes. He pushed over his open storage cabinet. DVDs clattered on the
floor. Self-help books clunked alongside them. About to thump the wall, he stopped,
not brave enough. He stomped a heavy foot instead.
Fed up, completely and utterly. He could have seen this coming, he knew
all these spiritual, religious and self-help ideas weren’t working for him, but
he’d kept on deceiving himself.
Maybe the Law of Attraction can help me, what about CBT, what about
Affirmations, how about Witchcraft, EFT, Buddhism, Wicca, Yoga, Laughter-Yoga,
Meditation, Visualisation, Divination, and every self-help book under the sun?!
Yeah, sure, they all seemed to work for a while but they never kept him
happy for long. He brought together the fingertips and thumb tip of his right
hand and used them to repeatedly tap the centre of his left palm. As he
continued this he mentally repeated, I’m calm, I’m focused, I’m calm, I’m
focused.
It took a while but he eventually composed himself. He looked to his
room. Ornaments he’d had for years were broken beyond repair. Visceral regret
made a sudden, disheartening appearance in his body. He hated rash outbursts of
anger like this, it was like consequences were illusions, and all that mattered
was his rage getting its cup full of destruction. And in this case, its room
full.
His morose mood occupied the evening. At least there was something to
look forward to the next day. Kind of.
‘Hello, Nicolas.’ Thursday at the local surgery, his therapist greeted
him, ‘Come on in, have a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ He sat in his usual place, a bog-standard chair turned at a
slight angle to his therapist’s seat. She closed the door and sat down. He envied
how she never rushed about or huffed and puffed.
‘How have you been this week?’
‘Err, okay mostly.’ It was true, he’d felt good for a few days after he
saw her last week.
‘Okay,’ she nodded gently. It was apparent that she was waiting for him
to expand on his answer. If anyone else had done that he would have been
annoyed.
‘Well, I got a bit angry last night. I feel like I’m trying so hard to
succeed at something but I don’t know what I even want to succeed at. I’ve
tried out so many self-help books and so many new things that surely I deserve
to be happy about something. I see other people who don’t even seem to try, yet
they have everything they want and they are happier than me.’
He understood himself here in the safe-bubble the therapist had created.
He felt no judgment.
‘You’re feeling lost?’
‘Yeah… I am.’ He quietly cried. She waited patiently and placed a box of
tissues on the nearby desk.
The room was too clinical; a spare room in the surgery, full of doctors’
tools and posters. Cold and unwelcoming, but Nick was referred for therapy free
on the NHS so he couldn’t exactly complain.
When he was originally referred, he told his doctor, ‘I’ve been crying
frequently, at least once a week for a long time now.’ He was glad it never led
to officially being diagnosed as depressed, but he was more pleased that he was
taken seriously and sent on for therapy.
He stopped crying. He’d become accustomed to shedding tears in front of Caroline,
though overall he was upset less frequently nowadays. It was a steady climb.
‘I feel a bit better now. I don’t really know what else to say about it.
I’m going to see how this week goes really.’ He grabbed a tissue and dabbed his
eyes.
Having cleared some emotional baggage, his mind went on a tangent… If his
therapist was his age, he would probably have found her attractive and the
session so wouldn’t work.
She was nearing fifty, looked fit as a fiddle, good teeth, excellent
figure, and Nick doubted that her blonde hair had even thought of greying. She
had a genuine aura about her; each facial expression was puppeted by real
emotions, not by a need for approval. Her name was Caroline. Nicolas and
Caroline Crystan… hmm…
‘How are things with your father?’ she asked without preamble. He shook
away the odd thoughts.
‘Same as always really. He’s not changed much for the past eight years
and it’s still awkward around him.’
‘Do you think he knows how awkward you feel?’
‘I doubt it, it’s like he’s on pause or something. It’s been so long now
that I can’t imagine opening up to him.’
‘What if you did talk to him about it?’
‘I just don’t know. I don’t want to lay out my feelings if he’s never
going to come out of his own little bubble. It would be even more awkward
if I did.’
She nodded and asked, ‘But is it a risk worth taking?’
He thought about it. He remembered when his dad was different to how he
was now: he was chatty, he smiled more, laughed more. But that was all before
Nick’s mother disappeared eight years ago.
He was sixteen when it happened, and his brothers were only ten. She
simply wasn’t home when they got back from school. They waited and waited for
her to return but it appeared that she’d withdrawn a few thousand pounds the
same day that she vanished. Her car was missing too.
As far as anyone could tell, she’d gone off and started a new life.
Lansin Island was in the Celtic Sea, fifteen miles off the coast of Bude in
Cornwall, so it would have been easy to get a ferry from Amiton across to Bude,
the same as the tourists did. She could have caught a ferry to Cornwall, and
then who knows where she went from there?
Nick sure as hell didn’t know.
He didn’t want to think about it anymore. All he knew was that she left
with the worst possible timing. It was hard enough being a teenager as it was,
but with his dad’s birthday only a couple of weeks after she vanished, it was
too cruel.
‘Maybe it’s worth the risk… I’ll have to think some more.’ Once the
session was over, he headed home lighter and more able to think clearly.
He spent that evening wrapped under a warm blanket, watching the film Big
Fish that his brother, Tom, had lent him. Tom let him borrow it knowing
that he was fond of Tim Burton’s work but hadn’t got around to this one yet.
Nick had two brothers, Tom and Tommy. They were twins and both eighteen
years of age. Their names could be confusing to other people, but Nick had
always been able to tell them apart. Their parents weren’t expecting twins.
They’d decided that if the baby was a girl then her name would be Sarah, and if
a boy, it would be Thomas. So with the surprise of two baby boys, they settled
on Tom and Tommy Crystan.
Like a lot of twins, their relationship with each other was strong. They
seemed to have the same hobbies, interests, taste in clothes and even the same
taste in women. Tommy had always been the centre of attention; he picked the
trends and Tom followed.
Nick didn’t expect Tom to like this kind of film. He’d thought of his
brothers as ‘mainstreamers’ who jumped on every bandwagon. He loved them both,
but until now he’d assumed they were not just physically twins, but also mind-twins
with personalities that reached as far as the local pub.
The blanket wasn’t so warm after all. It was old, tatty and had lost its
body, but Nick enjoyed the film and was moved by the emotional ending.
It crossed his mind that if someone described to him a twenty-four year
old guy snuggled up to himself and watching a film alone, he would think they
were a right loser. And on that thought, he called it a night.
The next morning he looked in the mirror before leaving for work. He checked
his hair, he was one of those lucky guys with naturally rough and styled hair,
so apart from washing, it needed no extra attention.
People had told him he was good looking before, but he always brushed it
off. It wasn’t something he liked to think about. He wasn’t self-conscious but
he didn’t like accepting compliments. Most clothes suited him, weight wasn’t an
issue and acne had never come knocking.
Feeling mostly satisfied with his reflection, he left for work.
For late October, the weather was pleasant; it wasn’t cold, just cool,
damp and fresh. Cold and drizzly rain was the default on Lansin Island, but
today was looking up.
He parked his car outside of town and started walking towards Creaky
Crystals. Weather permitting, he wore a thin jacket over an olive green
T-shirt, and below he had on dark jeans. Black winklepickers were his usual
choice of footwear.
In the lower grounds a red-headed girl spun circles in the nearby
fountain and fell into his path. He stopped still, his stomach tightened, he
came over queasy. His sudden stop caused the girl to bump into him.
He had to rationalise for a second. The girl ran over to her mother who
was setting up a stall. He’d probably seen them both here loads of times; it
was only a coincidence.
He scanned the stores around him, searching for one in particular. As he
found it, he caught the eyes of a lady re-arranging her shop display. She gave
him a friendly nod. He awkwardly nodded back. He turned dizzy but forced
himself to focus.
Another detail came to mind and he looked to the front of Creaky
Crystals.
The seagull was there; it stared at him.
His instincts took control; he ran for the steps that lead to the upper
grounds and ascended them, regretting his choice of footwear. His legs ached as
he reached the top. He heard the car screech and saw it try to swerve a little
business stall. It failed.
The impact flipped the car. It rolled high speed, heading for the woman.
The noises were deafening but he couldn’t stop to cover his ears. He grabbed the
lady and spun her away from the vehicle with such force that they almost
toppled over the ledge to the lower grounds.
The car slammed into the low wall, only inches away from them and came to
a stop. Fortunately the car didn’t go over the side. There was a man inside the
upturned car, he looked unconscious and blood dripped from his head. The cry of
police sirens drew closer.
Nick realised how hard his grip on the woman was, and with that
realisation came another. She wasn’t dead. I saved her.
‘Sorry,’ he said, then let go of her. He looked at her oval face, trying
to catch her eyes. They were cerulean blue, but she didn’t look back at him.
Her hair was blonde and rested on her shoulders, slightly dishevelled from the
incident. She was almost as tall as him, with a slim figure… a great figure.
‘No, it’s fine,’ she let out a heavy breath, seemingly startled, ‘I’ve
got to go.’ She turned without another word and headed away from the scene.
What if the police wanted a statement from her?
He didn’t know what to do. The woman hurried out of sight. Nick pulled
himself together and called for an ambulance. Moments later a police car pulled
up. He moved away from the wall and the crumpled vehicle.
Even with all the commotion, only three things were on his mind. One: The
woman he saved was gorgeous. Two: He’d had a real premonition and saved
someone’s life. And three: She didn’t even say thank you to him for saving her!
Review
By Tabitha
A Death
Displaced is the first novel
in the Lansin Island Series by Andrew Butcher. As a first novel, it must
accomplish many goals: introduce a broad range of characters, establish the
environment of the series (including setting and atmosphere), and weave an
intricate plot that will take multiple novels to resolve, essentially making
the story and its characters memorable enough so that readers come back for
seconds. Butcher achieves all of these goals and more; upon reaching the last
page, the reader hungrily flips to the information section in a desperate
attempt to find out when the next book will be released.
The reader is first
introduced to Nick Crystan as he is daydreaming during a shift at Creaky
Crystals - or at least he thinks it's a daydream. As he is standing behind the counter
looking out the window, he has a strange vision of a woman being hit by a car
and falling to her death right outside the shop. He writes it off as a bizarre
by-product of his meditation attempts and proceeds to deal with an irate
customer who fancies herself a witch. The reader learns from Nick's inner
thoughts that this is a common occurrence in Amiton and on Lansin Island in
general. Later on, the reader learns that centuries ago over one-hundred
witches were burned at the stake and that the island has always been known for
its practicing Wiccans and such.
The narrative
continues with a closer look at Nick as he goes about his week after the
vision. He is twenty-four and lives alone, practicing meditation and hoping to
achieve enlightenment. Nick's mother disappeared eight years ago without
warning after taking a large sum of money from her account; no one knows what
happened to her and so Nick has spent his life feeling inadequate and stunted.
Then something happens that changes his outcome on life; a few days after his
vivid daydream, he recognizes the events leading up to the crash and this time
he pulls the woman to safety. Even though she runs away without so much as a
thank you, Nick feels energized with a sense of purpose from his premonition.
The next chapter
switches to the woman's point of view. The reader learns that her name is
Juliet Maystone and that she owns Chanton Hillview café; her parents are
wealthy and have moved to Spain, giving her extravagant gifts as a substitute
for their love. After the incident in Amiton, she feels somehow disconnected
from her body - she even had the sensation of actually falling to her death,
but then Nick grabbed her. Strange things start to happen: she sees hazy
figures out of the corner of her eye, the temperature drops suddenly in her
office, lights flicker, and she hears voices. Worried that something is wrong
with her, she seeks the advice of Tamara who claims to be a descendant of the
Lansin Island witches. Tamara tells Juliet she was meant to die that day and so
her soul is in the Otherworld; she cautions her that spirits will come to her
for help.
As the novel
continues, the bigger picture is painted. The reader learns that a child has
gone missing, a case which is similar to one from ten years ago as well as the
case of Nick's mom. Nick thinks fleetingly that it may all be connected, but
how? On Halloween, the story switches back to Juliet; her strange occurrences
culminate in the appearance of a spirit named Samantha Crystan, who asks Juliet
to find her son Nick and tell him to visit Grendel Manor to learn the truth
behind her disappearance. Finally, the connection between Nick and Juliet is
cemented.
The novel is
incredibly detailed; as a first book in a series, it must create characters and
a storyline that readers will want to return to again and again. Butcher
definitely accomplishes this. By the end, the reader feels a true connection
not only to Nick and Juliet, but also everyone in their lives; the descriptions
of their thoughts and relationships are meticulous. As for plot, by the end of
the book, the reader has an idea how all of the pieces fit together, but the
mystery is far from solved. This book is a pleasure to read, it introduces
interesting concepts and characters, and leaves you wanting more!
About the Author
Andrew Butcher was
born in Northampton, England. As a kid, he didn't read much. He recalls being
attracted to the Lemony Snicket, A Series of Unfortunate Events books, but
probably more for the cover illustration than anything else. He started to read
them but didn't get past book three.
His passion for reading arose when he was sixteen and he discovered Anne
Rice's The Vampire Chronicles. He ploughed through the series. Later he moved
onto other books, some standalone novels, but his preference is for series,
such as Charlaine Harris's The Southern Vampire Mysteries or Stephen King's The
Dark Tower books.
Although he loves to read, he enjoys watching TV series just as much.
Some of his favourites are Lost, Battlestar Galactica, Fringe, True Blood,
Chuck, Dexter and The 4400. Anything with a compelling story and unpredictable
twists!
He began writing while at college as a hobby in his own spare time. It
turned out that he was unconsciously writing a depressing autobiography. He
scrapped this first piece of work and didn't write for a couple of years.
The reason he came back to writing was that he realised it's the only
hobby he truly enjoys enough to stick at it. Writing a novel is like a project
that he feels the need to complete. He's been through phase after phase in the
past and has often been talented at deceiving himself about how much he loves a
subject, but has always became bored in the end.
He writes for himself mainly but loves the idea of other people enjoying
his work.
He came up with the premise for A Death Displaced a few years ago but has only acted on it recently. Plans for a series are in place and he expects to
release A Body Displaced, Book Two in the series, in 2013. A Note Below, a short story featuring a few characters from A Death Displaced, was released in October 2012.
The author states, "I enjoyed every moment of writing this novel,
and I hope that you take pleasure in reading it."
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