'Their blood and the runes. The end, like the beginning.'
Pétur lives in the post-banking collapse Iceland where businessmen try to benefit and politicians pretend to be honest. He loves the thrill of money and power and he will not let anything get in his way. Not even the prime minister intimidates him.
The nightmares featuring that one woman are an annoying nuisance that he tries to ignore. When he receives a photo of himself with her, he wonders how anyone could have known about her existence.
The boundaries between reality and insanity blur as a man is murdered in his office. As the nightmares take over and become more real than the physical world around him, will he be able to find out who he is before time runs out?
This is a self-published title and has sold modestly. It hit no. 2 in the Thrillers category on Amazon DE shortly after being published.
~ 1947 ~
Never. Not in a thousand years. How could she possibly have imagined that it would end this way?
The storm was raging like it had all night and sleep didn’t come easy. Thunderstorms were rare in Iceland, but tonight the world was alight. Like God wanted to show his rage. Like it should be absolutely clear that He wasn’t ready for the sacrifice about to be offered. But nobody was listening.
The house was dark, except for a couple of table lamps casting shadows on the walls. The entrance was grand. Heavy furniture, picked for style rather than function. Emilía was standing on the top of a central staircase, ghostlike in her bathrobe. One nostril bleeding, soiling the perfectly white silk. She looked back quickly, saw him approaching. Stumbling down the stairs, she managed to stay on her feet by holding onto the heavy, wooden railing. He followed slowly like a zombie, a dreamlike demon that always caught up with you. She reached the ground floor and looked back again. He was standing at the top of the stairs, the smoking silver coloured gun hanging by his side. He took the first step down and wiped the sweat from his face. She ran towards the large front door, attacking it frantically. It was locked and the keys weren’t hanging where they always had. A mere hours earlier, she had hung her own keys by the door but they were nowhere in sight.
She realised this was a setup, not a momentary lapse of reason by a man that had temporarily lost a grip of his senses. This was planned. But it couldn’t be. Not him. How could he even think about it, let alone do it? It would ruin everything they had worked for. This was bigger than a murder. He must understand that? This was the end for them both. Pulling the trigger would be suicide.
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Icelandic
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Already translated.
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Italian
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Translation in progress.
Translated by Carlotta Cutrale
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