It is
JULY 1st,
time for the FIRST Day Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!)
The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her
latest book's FIRST chapter!
This month's feature is:
and her book:
Coral
Moon
(Zondervan, 2007)
ABOUT THE
AUTHOR: 
Brandilyn
Collins is the bestselling author of
Violet Dawn, Web Of Lies,
Dead of Night, Stain of Guilt, Brink of Death, and Eyes of Elishajust to name a few.
Brandilyn and her family divide their time between the California Bay
Area and Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.
She maintains an informative blog called
Forensics and Faithwhere she daily dispenses wisdom on writing, life, and the Christian book
industry.
Brandilyn also hosts the blog
Kanner Lake: Scenes and Beanswhere you can read entertaining and eclectic posts about life in Kanner
Lake from Bailey, Wilbur, S-Man, Jake, and other of your favorite
characters from the Java Joint.
Coral Moon is
the second book in the Kanner Lake Series.
AND
NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Chapter 1 Kill tonight—or die.
The words burned, hot acid eating through his eyes, his brain. Right
down to his soul.
Only a crazy person would obey.
He slapped both hands to his ears, squeezed hard against his head.
Screwed his eyes shut. He hung there, cut off from the world, snagged on
the life sounds of his body. The whoosh of breath, the beat of his heart.
The words boiled.
His skull hurt. He pulled his hands away, let them fall. The kitchen
spun. He dropped into a chair, bent forward, and breathed deeply until
the dizziness passed.
He sat up, looked again to the table.
The note lay upon the unfolded Kanner Lake Times newspaper, each word
horrific against the backdrop of a coral crescent moon.
How did they get in here?What a stupid question. As if they lacked stealth, as if mere walls and
locked entrances could keep them out. He’d been down the hall in the
bedroom watching TV, door wide open, yet had heard nothing. Hadn’t even
sensed their presence as he pushed off the bed and walked to the
kitchen for some water.
A chill blew over his feet.
His eyes bugged, then scanned the room. Over white refrigerator and oak
cabinets, wiped-down counters and empty sink. To the threshold of the
kitchen and into the hallway. There his gaze lingered as the chill
worked up to his ankles.
It had to be coming from the front of the house.
His skin oozed sweat, a web of sticky fear spinning down over him.
Trembling, he pulled himself out of the chair. He clung to the smooth table
edge, ensuring his balance. Then, heart beating in his throat, he
forced himself across the floor, around the corner, and toward the front
door.
It hung open a few inches.
They were taunting him.
He approached, hands up and fingers spread, as if pushing through
phantoms. Sounds of the night wafted on the frigid air—the rustle of breeze
through tree limbs, distant car tires singing against pavement. He
reached the door, peered around it, knowing he was a fool to seek sign of
them. The air smelled crisp, tanged with the purity of pine trees. The
last vestiges of snow dusted his porch, bearing the tracks of his
footprints alone.
He closed the door and locked it. As if that would do any good. He
sagged against the wall, defeated and sick. How stupid to think they would
leave him in peace. Hadn’t he seen this coming? All the events of the
last few months . . .
Shoulders drawn, he made his way back to the kitchen and his inevitable
fate. Each footstep drew him away from the life he’d built, reasoning
and confidence seeping from him like blood from a fatal wound. His
conscience pulsed at what he had to do.
The message sat on his table, an executioner beckoning victim to the
noose. He fell into the chair, wiped his forehead with the back of his
hand. He read the words, fresh nausea rising in his stomach. No
misunderstanding their commands. They had a chess score to settle. He was their
pawn.
He pushed back against the chair, arms crossed and hugging himself, the
way he used to do as a boy. Dully, he stared at the window, seeing
only his own pitiable reflection. For a long time he watched himself,
first transfixed in fright, then with the evolving expression of
self-preservation.
If he just did this one thing, his debt would be paid. They’d leave him
alone.
For another hour...two…he sat, forcing down the queasiness as he
thought through dozens of details. How he should do it. What could go wrong.
By the time he rose near midnight, he’d laid his plans.
Gathering the necessary items, shrugging on a coat, he slipped out into
the cold and soulless night.
Copyright 2007 by
Brandilyn Collins.
Raised in the American Southwest, Kathleen began her love affair with the desert as a child. Before becoming a writer she, among other jobs, worked in both the juvenile facility fro incarcerated girls and a home for emotionally disturved children. Mother of two, sh lives in Northern California with her husband and youngest son. Visit her blog, Reading, Writing, and What Else is There? She is a member of the CFBA, too! Give her a holler!
“Not a safe world.” How many times had she heard it over and over again? Well, it is not a safe world and Dara Murphy Brogan knew it better than most, which is exactly why she had tucked herself away on a desert mountaintop. Now it was just her, the voice inside her head and the boxes of hastily packed odds and ends—all that was left of her pathetic excuse of a life. Hadn’t she chosen the desert because it was barren and brown and dead looking and far, far away from anyone who may have seen the news?
