Bestselling author Cheryl Kaye Tardif is nearing the end of her 'Touring the World' virtual book tour, so she decided to do something she doesn't usually do. She is giving you a sneak peek at an UNpublished novel, one that she is very excited about and one that Kunati Books is currently considering. If you enjoy it, please sign Cheryl's guestbook and tell her (and her publisher). Keep in mind this has not gone through final edits. You can read the prologue and chapter one at NamelessGrace.com.
Children of the Fog is a chilling story, one that is sure to make you get up and check your doors and windows.
CHILDREN of the FOG
©2007 Cheryl Kaye Tardif
May 14th, 2006
She was ready to die.
She sat at the kitchen table―a nearly empty bottle of Philip’s precious red wine in one hand, a loaded gun in the other. Staring at the foreign chunk of metal, she willed it to vanish. But it didn’t.
Sadie checked the gun and noted the single bullet.
“One’s all you need.”
If she did it right.
She placed the gun on the table and glanced at a pewter-framed photograph that hung off-kilter above the mantle of the fireplace. It was illuminated by a vanilla scented candle, one of many that threw flickering shadows over the rough wood walls of the log cabin.
Sam’s sweet face stared back at her, smiling.
From where she sat, she could see the small chip in his right front tooth, the result of an impatient father raising the training wheels too early. But there was no point in blaming Philip―not when they’d both lost so much.
Not when it’s all my fault.
Her gaze swept over the mantle. There were three objects on it besides the candle. Two envelopes, one addressed to Leah and one to Philip, and the portfolio case containing the illustrations and manuscript on disc for Sam’s book.
She had finished it, just like she had promised.
“And promises can’t be broken. Right, Sam?”
A single tear burned a path down her cheek.
Sam was gone.
What reason do I have for living now?
She gulped back the last pungent mouthful of Cabernet and dropped the empty bottle. It rolled under the chair, unbroken, rocking on the hardwood floor. Then all was silent, except the antique grandfather clock in the far corner. Its ticking reminded her of the clown’s shoe. The one with the tack in it.
Tick, tick, tick…
The clock belched out an ominous gong.
It was almost midnight.
Please note: some spacing issues may occur as a result of copying and pasting from MS Word to blogs or sites. These will not appear in the final product.