Jaz Parks 1 - Once Bitten Twice Shy

  Once Bitten, Twice Shy

  By

  Jennifer Rardin

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dear Reader,

  A few months ago a manuscript zapped into my inbox with a cover note from the agent that read: "A nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to die there." Miami isn't the first city you'd think of for an urban fantasy novel, but then again, Jaz Parks isn't your ordinary heroine. She's an Assistant Assassin. And her boss is an ancient vampire on the CIA's payroll.

  ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY is the beginning of the Jaz Parks series. What I loved from the first page was Jaz Parks's voice: vulnerable on one side and yet fully capable of taking out anyone who gets in her way, usually the bad guys. This is a book that will keep you on the edge of your seat, so keep a pillow on the floor, just in case you fall off.

  We all know that the urban fantasy market is booming, given the success of writers such as Keri Arthur, Patricia Briggs, Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, and Kim Harrison. But what I think each of them has—and what Jennifer Rardin has—is the ability to create characters that do more than leap off the page. They also grab you by the throat and don't let go.

  This is, quite simply, a great read—fun, fast-paced, and oozing attitude and wit.

  Best,

  Devi Pillai

  Editor, Orbit

  P.S. ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST will be out in December 2007 and BITING THE BULLET will be joining the series in February 2008. We know you won't want to wait!

  Copyright © 2007 by Jennifer Rardin

  Orbit

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com

  First Edition: October 2007

  Orbit is a trademark of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN 9780316020466

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Kirk, my inspiration, my joy, my love.

  Once Bitten, Twice Shy

  Prologue

  Fear sucks. Because you never know when it will hit you. Sometimes it sneaks up behind you, giggling like your best girlfriend from 7th grade. Then it whacks you on the back of the head, takes you straight to your knees before you realize what hit you. Other times you can see it coming, just a dot on the horizon, but you're like a canary in a cage. All you can do is hang in there and hope it doesn't hit you so hard you get motion sickness and puke all over the newspapers.

  I already felt pretty queasy as I perched on the single, wooden folding chair in my boss, Pete's, office. In fact, I hadn't been this scared since I'd started working for him six months before. Not even when, about ten hours into my first mission, I'd walked into my hotel room to find a vampire standing beside the bed, holding a crossbow. My crossbow. The one I'd meant to use to eliminate him.

  Unlike that scenario, this was not a case where I could just go away and try again later. Or, as I had actually done, kick both shoes into his face to throw him off balance, blast his kneecaps with the .38 I wore under my skirts for insurance, then finish him off with the crossbow he'd dropped when his bones shattered. In this instance I was forced to sit absolutely still and try not to ralf all over the Top Secret files stacked in rows two and sometimes three deep on Pete's green metal desk. Because, despite the fact that I'd successfully completed every mission he'd assigned me so far, Pete was about to fire my ass.

  There could be no other explanation for this call-in. The man, notorious for his penny-pinching, had phoned me at 3:00 a.m. direct from Ohio to London for the express purpose of informing me I should buy a first-class ticket back to headquarters as soon as my job there was finished. He was probably looking at the receipt now, along with all the other expenses of my latest trip abroad. He ran a hand across his head, making his three remaining dome-hairs stand on end as he studied the open file in front of him.

  I couldn't bear it any longer. There is only so much you can take of staring at blank turquoise walls, rows of black metal file cabinets, and white slatted blinds that have never been opened, which would explain the dead plant sitting on the table by the window. I sat forward, the chair creaking alarmingly beneath me. No doubt about it, I am the only thing in this office under the age of fifty.

  You wouldn't know it to look at my clothes, though. I'd come straight from an American Airlines flight during which an avio-phobic widow had wadded various handfuls of my blouse and jacket into her fists the entire time. I looked like a homeless woman. Holy crap, if I lost this job I'd soon be a homeless woman. And that was the good news!

  "Look, Pete, I know you told me to cut out the car hits. The repairs are too expensive. You told me that. So I stopped. I haven't caused an "accidental" crash in three months, you know that! But this last one just couldn't be avoided."

  "I understand you took out my counterpart in MI5."

  "Well, yeah, but only because his driver was in on the plot. He'll be fine. You heard that too, right? His back will heal in, like, six weeks."

  "I heard there was a bomb."

  "It didn't go off."

  "But it could have."

  I shrugged. "Better there than at the coronation." Wait, that sounds a little casual for somebody who should be begging at this point. "But I am sorry about the car. I took out extra insurance."

  "This has nothing to do with the car. In fact, I'm glad you put that bastard in traction. Self righteous twit. No, you're here because I have a new assignment for you."

  Thank you, God. I still have work! I nearly relaxed. Which, considering my current state, would've sent me right to the floor. But Pete had started cracking his knuckles. In my time with him I'd seen pencil chewing, furniture kicking, file throwing, and a short bout with scented candles. But the knuckle cracking was new. I sat back carefully and waited.

  "You've heard of Vayl?" Pete asked.

  "Who hasn't?" Even if, as was likely, Vayl's legend had far outpaced his achievements, he still rated maaaaajor respect. The guy was an icon, and not just because he'd become one of the 15 percent, or so, of vampires to gain acceptance among humans. He was also the best assassin our department had ever fronted.

  "I'm partnering you with him." Pete's eyes darted away from my face, so I guess I wasn't hiding the What-The-Hell! very well. Long silence during which I tried to make my head stop spinning and Pete cleared his throat a few times.

  "Pete, I… when you hired me, you promised I could work alone." My previous job had involved an entire crew, of which, I had been the leader. It had ended badly.

  "Jasmine, Vayl has requested a partner. You specifically. You're smart, aggressive and resilient. His words, although I agree."

&n
bsp; My lips had gone numb. "Uh-huh. And?"

  He sighed. "And increasingly dangerous—to yourself." He rushed on before I could interrupt, which was a good thing, because I think my first response might've ruptured his eardrums. "You've been taking bigger and bigger risks. Like the job in Cuba."

  I'd hit Castro's most trusted advisor, a general named Miguel Santas. In the middle of a crowded market. In broad daylight. Within arm's reach of his lieutenants. But I'd gotten away clean. Didn't that count for anything?

  "And the one in Colorado."

  Aaah, sweet. A pedophile named George Freede had started a church called International Brothers of the Light. Their main focus seemed to be kidnapping children from the U.S. and selling them to the highest foreign bidder. I'd tracked him to a resort and pushed him off a mountain. Okay, we'd both fallen off, but I'd landed on my skis in nice, fluffy powder. He'd dropped on a rock.

  "I know how furious you must be, Jaz—"

  "I don't think so."

  He sighed again. "Okay, maybe not. But it's my responsibility to make sure my agents survive."

  "So you got me a babysitter."

  Pete laughed, deep in his belly where it sounded the most real. "Hell no. I hooked you up with a guy who's been alive nearly 300 years. I was just hoping some of his interest in life would rub off on you."

  Tears pricked my eyelids. "I'm not suicidal."

  Powerful word, suicide, no matter how you use it. It sobered Pete instantly. "No. If you were, you'd have died eight months ago. But you're not sensible either. You need somebody around who's not afraid to get in your face and tell you when you're acting like an idiot."

  My fury had waned. Dammit, I should've yelled when I still had the gumption. But I couldn't deny the sense in what Pete said. And it was kind of nice to be looked after, cared for. I had only been alone a little over half a year. But it had felt like thousands.

  I sighed. "You said he requested me? Why?"

  "He's got his own reasons, which he says he'll reveal to you in his own time." Pete and I shared a cynical raising of the eyebrows.

  "Quite a mysterious character, isn't he?" I noted.

  "When he wants to be," Pete agreed.

  We talked for awhile longer. Which was when I discovered, while Pete wanted me to stop taking crazy chances, his bosses appreciated the fact that I was willing.

  "Our government looks at Vayl as a national treasure, Jaz," Pete said. "On paper you're his assistant. In reality, you're his bodyguard. You've met the members of our oversight committee."

  And how. Senators Fellen, Tredd and Bozcowski had pretty much cured me of ever wanting to vote again.

  Pete went on. "They've asked me to make sure you understand your primary mission will always be to make sure he comes back in one piece."

  I'm 5' 5". I weigh one-twenty when I remember to eat, which isn't regularly. No question this guy, Vayl, could snap me like a twig any time the urge hit him. I laughed. Pete didn't. "You're not kidding."

  "Apparently Vayl had a close call on his last mission. Real close. Which was why he revealed a secret no vampire has ever told anyone before. There are two moments when vamps are completely vulnerable. When they're taking blood. And when they're making a kill. He might have other reasons for wanting you there, but the fact that some ear-breather nearly smoked my best agent is enough for me and more than enough for the powers that control my budget. He wants a partner. You're it."

  Chapter One

  Six Months Later

  "Get outta my way you old bat," I muttered under my breath as an elderly woman who shouldn't have been driving a golf cart much less a Lincoln Town Car at this time of night put-putted down the street in front of me, her blinker announcing she meant to make a right turn some time before she reached the ocean.

  "A little testy tonight, aren't we Lucille?" Lucille Robinson is my usual cover and my alter-ego, a gracious, sweet girl who always knows the right thing to say. Vayl invokes her when I step out of line. I nearly flipped him off, but since he's still got one foot mired in the 1700s, I thought better of it and stuck my tongue out at him instead. I wasn't sure he'd see me making faces at him in the rear-view, but of course Vayl sees everything. I realized I'd come to count on that as much as I sought his approval which, at the moment, had ditched me.

  "Do not be distracted by menial events," he reminded me in his stern baritone, "we have a job to do."

  "But if you'd just let me ram this old biddy into the next electric pole I'd feel much better."

  "You would not."

  I sighed. Six months. Scary how much Vayl had learned about me in such a short span. In my defense, given time he could worm the true ages out of the entire cast of Desperate Housewives. Still, the only living person who knew more about me was my sister, Evie, and she was just that nosy.

  "It's New Year's Eve for Chrissake," I grumbled. "There's supposed to be snow on the ground. It's supposed to be freezing." I guess the natives of Miami would've disagreed with me. And to be honest, all those palm trees would've sent me skipping around in circles if I'd been on vacation. But we Midwesterners have a thing about winter holidays and snow, and this year I had yet to experience either one.

  Vayl went still, a sight that will creep you out big-time if you've never seen it before. He sort of resembles a statue anyway, as if Da Vinci had chiseled his square forehead, high cheekbones and long Roman nose from smooth, pale stone. His curly black hair was cut so short that right now I'd almost swear someone had painted it on. The temperature inside our silver Lexus suddenly dropped ten degrees. A breeze ruffled my red curls, playing them across my shoulders as if they were harp strings.

  "You make it snow inside this car and I swear I'm going to park your butt in the middle of the next retirement village we come to and take the first plane I can find back to Ohio," I warned him.

  Strange to think of Ohio as a base for any operation more dangerous than cataract surgery. But that's why we're still doing the government's business. Of course, people know we kill bad guys. They just don't want the gory details. But if you asked them in a dark room where their neighbors couldn't hear, they'd tell you we're not nearly as proactive as they'd like. Witches, vamps, weres… some would vote to throw them all on a gigantic bonfire and have done. But there's good sorts among those others who have earned, and deserve, the same rights and protections we humans get.

  Vayl is one of them. And after six months of watching his back, I was glad I hadn't pulled a diva on Pete and stomped out of his office when he'd suggested the partnership. We'd clicked like checkers from the start. At this point I couldn't imagine working without him. But he did have his quirks.

  He sort of came alive again, catching me off guard, as it would if, say, I were strolling through a botanical garden and the cherub in the fountain suddenly started flapping its wings. He sat forward, his smile just a twitch of the lips.

  "How can you miss your sleepy little state when I have brought you to one of the most exotic spots on earth?"

  "Okay, I know you're too old to be taking lessons from a young punk like me—"

  "Jasmine (he pronounced it Yaz-mee-na, which gave me the biggest thrill, though I'd never let on) while I agree that 25 is quite young, you can hardly call yourself a 'punk'."

  Yeah, but nutcase is just too close to the truth. "Dammit you old fart, would you turn right already!" The white-haired wonder leading what had to, by now, be a blocks-long parade must've turned on her hearing-aid. Because she finally pulled into the United Methodist Church parking lot, praise God, leaving the rest of us free to party until some other octogenarian found it necessary to take to the streets after dark. In Ohio, old folks know better than to drive at night. Yet another reason Cleveland rocks.

  We drove straight to our very old, very exclusive hotel. Called Diamond Suites, it towered above the pink stucco wall that surrounded it and its gardens, rising nearly twelve stories before reaching its peak with a steep, red tile roof. The windows all wore black metal bars, decoratively
scrolled top and bottom. The gated parking lot required a key card for entry. We'd retrieved ours along with the car we now drove, part of the privacy policy with which Diamond Suites attracts its reclusive, generally famous, clientele.

  Vayl's eyes were the icy blue of an Alaskan Husky as he took in every detail of the scene before him, his brain cataloging it for future reference. Parking lot full of high-end rentals. Check. Automatic, card-key entry door with bullet proof glass. Check. Lobby full of complimentary goodies from fluffy white towels to imported shampoos, all graciously displayed on the shelves of antique armoires. Check. Not a single soul in sight. Excellent.

  His hands full of bags, Vayl leaned over and nudged me with an elbow. "They say the place is haunted."

  I snorted. An unladylike habit, I know, but one which, like swearing, has its place. "Probably your old poker buddies waiting around to even the score." This was not as far-fetched as it sounded. Rumor had it Vayl had won his cane and his first gold mine in a game of five-card stud.

  Vayl's lips twitched again. Not for the first time I thought, If he ever truly smiles his face is going to shatter. But I tried not to think it too loud. On the plane he'd overheard the flight attendants discussing the pilot's stun gun from the back of the plane as he sat beside me in the front row. A man with that kind of ability only needs to listen slightly harder to hear my harsh thoughts.

  Vayl had reserved the penthouse, so we took elevator 6A to twelve. At that point I did a little soft-shoe—the semi-claustrophobic's version of the I-gotta-pee-dance—until Vayl figured out which way to slip our key card into the metal slot on the elevator's control panel so the door would open. After I'd leaped out and regained a somewhat steady pulse, I took stock. We stood in a small enclosed entryway decorated with a massive flowery mural that involved all four walls, including the elevator doors, and half of the ceiling. Tiles in the pastel pink so common to Florida covered the floor.