The first 250 words (to me) are the hardest to write. When my good friend, Emi J. Gayle, nudged me in the direction of Brenda Drake’s contest, I couldn’t resist.
Here are the rules:
I climbed out of the Mustang to find Cole staring at the crooked, steel door of the factory as if it might eat him. He smoothed a hand down his black suit, shot me a wary look, and reached for the knob. His trembling hand hovered above it for a moment before dropping back to his side.
Funny, I thought vampires would be braver, even at quarter to midnight.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I edged closer to him.
Standing outside a creepy factory with a dead guy wasn’t how I usually spent my Saturday nights, but I had to be brave for once. I’d been waiting for something exciting to happen since I could barely crawl into Gran’s squishy lap and listen, riveted, to her fantastic stories about fairies, goblins, and happily ever afters.
The building stretched out in both directions like an overgrown tin of sardines. Over a high window, a piece of burlap whap-whap-whapped in the breeze.
Cole backed away from the door.
“You’re giving me the skitters.” I shivered.
His eyes darted to me for only a moment, but I read them as well as if he had a marquee scrolling across his forehead. They said, “What else is new?”
“Why are you so freaked? We just need the council’s blessing, and then we can go. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”
“You’re human, Gillian. You wouldn’t understand even if I could explain it to you.”