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 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-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Copyright © 2007 by Jennifer Rardin

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Orbit

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com

  First eBook Edition: October 2007

  ISBN: 0-316-02278-0

  Liliana’s Voice Hit the Air Like a Jet Engine.

  I am not just going to kill you!” she screeched. “I am going to tear your chest open and drink the blood directly from your beating heart!”

  “That’s just gross, Liliana. Didn’t your poor, dead mama ever teach you any manners?”

  I slipped to another section of the roof as she tracked my voice. Hopefully I could play mouse to her cat long enough to find the twin to the door she’d just destroyed. Then I’d run some more. The thought made me want to break something.

  I could confront her, of course, maybe even smoke her if she wasn’t too fast or too strong. If my aim was true. But I realized, though I wanted to kill her, I couldn’t. Vayl should be the one to finish her.

  I found the door, framed by hanging baskets, and gently depressed the handle. Nothing happened. It was locked. Okay, Jaz, you are now trapped on top of an eight-story building with a homicidal vampire. Time for Plan B.

  JAZ PARKS NOVELS

  Once Bitten, Twice Shy

  Another One Bites the Dust

  Biting the Bullet

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

  PROLOGUE

  Fear sucks. Because you never know when it will attack. Sometimes it sneaks up behind you, giggling like your best girlfriend from seventh 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 you don’t get motion sickness and puke all over the newspapers.

  I already felt pretty queasy as I perched on the single wooden folding chair my boss, Pete, kept for visitors to his office. In fact, I hadn’t been this scared since I’d started working for him. 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 item 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 aviophobic widow had wadded various handfuls of my blouse and jacket into her fists the entire trip. 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.

  “Well . . .” Only whispers. You could almost call them rumors, their subject matter seemed so implausible. If you bought the stories, Vayl had built himself a legendary career, and not just because he’d become one of the 15 percent or so of vampires to gain acceptance among humans. He was also supposedly 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 fit his specifications. You’re smart, tough, resilient . . .”

  My lips had gone numb. “Uh-huh. And?”

  He sighed. “And increasingly dangerous.” 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. You’re a loose cannon out there, and I’m st
arting to think I can’t trust you to work alone.”

  Bullshit! Stop feeding me lines from cop movies, ya wanker! I know when I’m being jerked around!

  He rushed on. “I know how furious you must be—”

  “I don’t think so! I’ve kicked ass all over the globe for six months, Pete. I haven’t botched a single assignment. Not one. Show me another agent with that kind of record.”

  “Vayl—”

  “Needs me like he needs a suntan!”

  Pete gave me a get-hold-of-yourself stare that worked like looking in a mirror. Shit, was I actually frothing at the mouth? “Do you recall the job in Cuba?” he asked.

  I’d hit Castro’s most trusted adviser, 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 United States 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.

  “It’s my responsibility to make sure my agents survive,” Pete informed me.

  “So you got me a babysitter.”

  He 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 three hundred years. I was hoping some of his levelheadedness would rub off on you.”

  It was the laugh that got me. I took a breath, then another. I thought, Okay, maybe he’s right. Maybe I have crossed the line a couple too many times. And he doesn’t even know about the blackouts. Plus 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.

  “So what can you tell me about him?”

  Pete pulled a two-inch-thick folder off the top of a short pile and opened it. “He’s been with us since the early 1920s. Full name is Vasil Nicu Brancoveanu. Born November 18, 1713, in Mogosoaia, Rumania, which is near Bucharest.”

  “Oh, for chrissake, can we skip the birth certificate and get to the dirty laundry?”

  Pete shook his head at my impatience, but he closed the folder and gave me an indulgent smile. “He’s a power, Jaz, and I thank God every day he chose our side. I’ve read this file four times and still don’t think it covers all his abilities. I can tell you he’s got pretty well-developed hypnotic powers. He’s a helluva swordsman, skilled also with ranged weapons but prefers to fight up close and personal. Vampire strength and speed, of course, along with a finely honed ability to just disappear.”

  “And?”

  Pete nodded. He knew I was waiting for the biggie, the core power around which the others revolved. “He’s a Wraith.”

  So the stories were true. His touch could actually freeze a man to death.

  We talked for a while longer, which was when Pete revealed that, while he 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 drive home the importance of your primary mission, which will always be to make sure he comes back in one piece.”

  I’m five-five. I weigh one-twenty when I remember to eat, which isn’t regularly. No question this guy Vayl could snap me like a twig anytime the urge hit him. Plus, you don’t live that long without honing some major survival skills. I laughed. “Pete, lay off the bullshit, will you? Vayl needs a bodyguard like I need a pet poodle. You and I both know you’re not being straight with me about this deal. But you know what? I’ll go along for now. Because I’m curious.” And because, God save me, I loved the job. It had kept me alive. It had kept me sane, after . . . after.

  Pete looked embarrassed enough that I thought I’d give it one more push. “Come on, boss, really. Why me?”

  He smoothed those three hairs and dropped his hand to the desk. “Because Vayl wants you. And around here, what Vayl wants, Vayl gets.”

  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 putt-putted down the street in front of me, her blinker announcing she meant to make a right turn sometime before she reached the ocean.

  “Are we a little testy tonight, 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 rearview, 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. 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, straight 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 partnership, I was glad I hadn’t pulled a diva and stomped out of Pete’s office when he’d suggested our pairing. We’d clicked like checkers from the start. At this
point I couldn’t imagine working without him. But he did have his eccentricities. And, okay, some of those quirks made me want to dangle him from the Terminal Tower from time to time. His intense interest in my so-called Gifts. The fact that he’d flunked out of the School of Positive Reinforcement. And especially his adept avoidance of any subject related to the why of our hookup sometimes annoyed the hell out of me.

  He sort of came alive again, catching me off guard, as it would if, say, I was 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 twenty-five 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.