A shorter message from me. |

But a longer excerpt from the prequel, Into Darkness which is still available to those wanting to a beta read. The novel King in the Dark will arrive in two parts, the first nears completion hopefully this week, and will be a little over fifty thousand words.

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Into Darkness

Part One: Road to Darkness

1943: Pyrenees Mountains.Near Roncesvalles, Navarra, a few miles from the Spanish—French border. |

Chapter 1: Black Ice

February 20th

Captain Arthur King’s eyes searched the darkness as the Citroën’s shrouded headlights, little better than candles, struggled to light the road through the mountains. His mental clock read about half past midnight. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, the thin Bakelite grip cold under his palms. Snow slashed at the screen in ragged bursts, reducing visibility, and ice played havoc with traction. The prudent choice suggested a slow and steady approach. War made prudence a widow. King pushed as hard as he dared. Beside him, Lieutenant John Reed worked the single manual windscreen wiper, the other hand clutched around a satchel stuffed with documents, a map pressed to the front, as if their lives depended on it. A great many did.

“Left at the fork!” Reed shouted, voice cutting through the transmission whine. He jabbed a gloved hand toward the road ahead.

Two yellow beams carved through the night. A Renault Juvaquatre—a Police sedan in pursuit, bonnet dipping with each rut. Inside huddled the Milice—black-coated fascist enforcers, feared for their brutality.

Someone, somewhere, sometime must have betrayed them to the Nazi-appointed Vichy government of France. No time to wonder who and why.

The U23’s rear wheels skidded; the empty truck bounced, making matters worse. He thought of his friend’s girl in Algiers—Mary. Reed carried a diamond solitaire on a chain around his neck, destined for her hand.

He turned into the skid, hauling the Citroën through the bend, applying opposite lock to control the slide.

“You left that late,” Reed said.

“Just buying us time.”

The lights dropped back, the Milice car sliding, then reversing to make the turn.

Gusts rattled the Citroën’s tinny doors and drove chill wind inside. Wrapped against the cold, looking like peasants, King shivered and perspired at the same time. The U23’s diesel engine laboured in the thin, frozen air, its dull olive-drab paint flecked with frost, the canvas canopy over the bed fluttering as the weather whipped it.

Their route narrowed, flanked by high banks of snow. Tyres fought the frozen ground, the steering wheel twitching. Reed’s eyes flicked between the map and the chasing headlights.

“They’re gaining again,” Reed said.

“How much further?”

“A mile at most.”

King pressed the throttle; the road dipped, snaking downwards before climbing again. Water often flowed from the mountainside and down the track. Tonight it froze. A hard, smooth and invisible surface: black ice.

The rear end of the truck slid wide. King countered once, twice—but the third time the swinging tail went too far. The vehicle spun, the tail smacked the mountain’s face, the nose came around, and it ground into the same rock several yards later with a deafening crack.

Glass shattered. Metal buckled. Reed pitched forward, crashing into the two-panel windscreen’s central pillar. King’s forehead struck the dash; hot blood blinded one eye. His chest slammed into the wheel, ribs cracking. The Citroën bounced backwards. Reed fell back onto the dashboard and back into the seat. The satchel tumbled, papers scattering.

They slid off the road into a gully. The U23’s tail came to a stop against trees. Lights smashed, motor stalled—darkness and silence. Behind them, a gorge.

King sagged over the gearshift, blood’s salt in his mouth. Reed’s head lay at an unnatural angle. He reached for a pulse but found none. King snatched the chain from his neck. The ring—something for Mary in Algiers.

Outside, the Renault’s engine roared closer.

A sharp crack split the night. The Juvaquatre’s tyre burst, rubber whipping loose. Sparks spat as it swerved, headlights spinning before vanishing into the ravine. A distant crash echoed.

King lost track of time.

“A place of ghosts and smugglers,” a voice muttered in accented French.

Firm hands hauled King free, smelling of lanolin—the distinctive odour of sheep’s wool.

“Best we leave,” said another. A familiar accent.

“Miguel?” King said. “The papers.” He pointed to where Reed lay. Cold knifed through his coat, each breath burning his lungs.

“This is Iñigo,” Miguel said. The shepherd carried a Berthier rifle.
Branches whipped King’s shoulders; his boots punched through drifts. His ribs throbbed, and blood blurred his vision. Two miles later, a squat stone house rose from the white, smoke curling from the chimney. Inside, the fire’s heat struck like a blow. King sagged onto a bench. A lantern flickered, shadows trembling. Iñigo poured rough brandy into a brace of chipped enamel mugs, pressing one into King’s hand.

Miguel raised his. “To Reed.”

They drank. King lost his fight against unconsciousness. Morning brought English voices.

Coffee brewed on the fire. An OSS medic—Mitchell stitched his brow.

“Hold still,” the man muttered. Each pull set the wound aflame; his ribs throbbed. Mitchell and Miguel helped King into another nondescript Renault AHN truck. Miguel stayed behind while they headed south into Spain. The Pyrenees slid into memory, Algiers ahead. King stared at the truck’s deck, hand tight around Reed’s ring.

 | The Wendell Case

by S.E. Grosskopf

The Wendell Case by S. E. Grosskopf is a gripping prequel that introduces readers to the intriguing world of Lowan, a telepathic radio repairman, and Detective Lieutenant Marx, a newcomer navigating a hostile police department in 1928 Milford Falls.This atmospheric mystery blends historical fiction with subtle supernatural elements, delivering a tightly woven plot centred on a murder investigation.

Grosskopf’s vivid prose and well-crafted characters create a compelling foundation for the series, leaving readers eager for more without overwhelming them with complexity. Perfect for fans of classic detective stories with a unique twist.

The Wendell Case |
Why not buy the whole series? A steal at ~$10