TITLE: THE LEGEND OF VICTOR STANDISH
GENRE: YA urban fantasy
A thirteen year old kid shouldn't be taking this many bus trips alone I told myself. I snorted. Who was I kidding? "Alone" was the story of my life.
Then, I went very still, very cold, very fast.
The bus seat next to me had been empty this whole trip. Now, there was an old woman sitting in it way too close for comfort. I hadn't shut my eyes or anything. One second the seat had been empty.
The next, the old woman, smelling of lavender and death, sat in it.
How did I know what death smelled like? Live on the streets alone and hungry for years like me, and you become an expert on a lot of things kids with homes know nothing about.
The smell of death got stronger. I looked up. Green cat-eyes studied me out of a face that seemed to have found a sale on wrinkles. She must have found her musty Victorian dress in the attic of the Bates Motel. She frowned at me as if she could read my thoughts. I hoped she didn't mind light reading.
She thrust a note at me. I sat there. She shook it.
I didn't want an old lady smacking me. A guy couldn't hit an old woman. I took it with all the thrill of eating road-kill.
I looked down. It was smoking. I looked back up to the old woman. She was gone. My shivers got goose bumps.
"Cue the spooky music," I whispered.