JAZ: “What do you want to know?”
JEN: “Are you haunted by the people you’ve killed?” Her eyebrows shot up. I could see her thinking it was none of my damn business. But she wasn’t ready to shut me off. Not yet.
JAZ: “That would presuppose that I felt guilty about killing them, wouldn’t it?” She thought a second. “The ones that bother me are the ones that didn’t go down as quick or painless as I would’ve liked. But I’m not haunted. My job is to take out bad guys. If you think that makes me a bad guy . . .” She shrugged. “That’s your problem.”
JEN: “Actually, I don’t. But I do think it makes you unique. How did you get into this line of work?”
JAZ: “After the big blowout with my dad, I’ll tell you about that later, the military was just out for me as a career path. But I still wanted to serve my country.” She paused. “What, no smartass remark?”
JEN: “No.”
JAZ: “Sorry. Even now I get a little defensive. You can love a man or a kid or a piece of damn pie and nobody has a problem with you. But love your country and in some places you get booed right out of the joint.”
JEN: “Go on.”
JAZ: “Anyway, the CIA recruited me straight out of college. After the Helsinger tragedy . . .” a pause here while Jaz looked out the window, and then down at the lovely gold and ruby ring on her left hand, “I was a wreck. But I kept it all buttoned up good and tight. So after a couple months at a desk, I got an interview with Pete, and he hired me.” Her laugh managed to completely lack humor. “The job killed me, and then it saved me. Ironic, huh?”
JEN: “Why are you telling me all this?” She answered quickly. Too quickly.
JAZ: “I guess I want to leave something behind me when I’m gone. A legacy.”
JEN: “You could just as easily have said you wanted the historians to get their stories straight once this is all declassified.”
JAZ: “Meaning?”
JEN: “Either way, your story’s bullshit.” She smiled, then. She appreciated honesty, I think because she so rarely saw it in her world.
JAZ: “All you hear any time you turn on the TV is, the world is ending. Some scientist with too little data and too much funding is in the microphone of some anchor who’s only interested in scaring the hell out of her audience because that’s how you get ratings, man. Nobody seems to recall that people have been screaming about the world ending for the last two thousand years. They’re scared out of their minds. They live in fear. Every move, every decision is based somewhat on how terrified they are at any given moment. People need to know there’s hope. That people like me are out there fighting for them, making sure the world keeps turning, so they can occasionally let go of that fear and find a moment or two of happiness.” She sat back. Grimaced, like she’d eaten something sour. “And if you ever tell anybody I said that I’m going to kick your ass.”
I liked her. God help me, I felt a real affection for this dangerous woman sitting in my old farmhouse while her vampire lover hovered somewhere among my gardens or my fields. Even though I knew the only reason she’d picked me was that she’d read one of my stories in a magazine and liked it, and she knew I’d keep her secrets until she told me it was time to tell. What a weird old world.
JAZ: “Things are stirring. I won’t be able to stick around much longer. After I’m gone you’ll have plenty of time to write up the Tor-al-Degan story. In the meantime, let me tell you what happened next.”
JEN: “You mean after you got out of the hospital?”
JAZ: “Of course. God, they had me on the strongest drugs. Couldn’t remember a thing that happened that first week. Took me a while to heal, of course, but I want to tell you about the mission. It involved this Chinese vampire named Chien-Lung. Dragon fanatic. If he’d been a teenaged guy he’d have had dragon posters plastered all over his bedroom walls, tattoos, T-shirts, the works! Anyway, let me start at the beginning . . .”
introducing Jennifer’s next novel
turn this page for an excerpt from
ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST
available in paperback December 2007
Holy crap, I’ve had another blackout! But as soon as the suspicion hit me I knew otherwise. I hadn’t experienced the usual warning signs, and I’d never before left my mind in a daydream while the rest of me got busy. This was something new. Something scary. Because after the knock-down-drag-out with the Tor-al-Degan, I thought I’d kicked those nutty little habits that made me seem, well, nuts. Okay, the card shuffling kept up without much of a break. And sometimes words still ran loops around my brain until I forced them back on the road. But those moments were rarer now. And the blackouts really had stopped, along with the dread that someone I knew would find reason to recommend an asylum and a heavy dose of Zoloft.
Familiar laughter caught my attention. The couple from the beach, they were here, just entering an elevator. Without conscious thought I’d followed them to their hotel and booked a room. I checked the receipt. At least I’d used my personal credit card. If I’d had to explain this to Pete, well, maybe I could’ve come up with something. But I probably would’ve just resigned.
I shoved the stuff the desk clerk had handed me into my back pocket and strode outside. I needed to do something concrete. Something to bring me back to myself. So I phoned my sister.
“Evie?”
“Oh, Jaz, I’m so glad you called.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am. E.J. has hardly stopped crying all day. This doesn’t seem right, does it?”
Hell no! But then I’m the least qualified to say. “Did you call the pediatrician?”
“No. I know he’ll just say it’s that colic.” Her voice started to shake. “I just feel like such a terrible mother that I can’t make her stop crying!”
Now here was something I could deal with. “Evie, you are an awesome mother. This I can tell you from experience. I’ve seen you in action. Plus I have had a crappy mother. So I know whereof I speak. You rock. I know it’s tough on you guys having a baby who cries all the time. The lack of sleep alone is probably making you a little crazy. I know I’m still kinda grouchy and I’ve only been gone, what, a couple of days? But listen, you will figure this out, okay?”
Big pause. “O-kay.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“It’s just . . . usually you tell me what to do. Then I do it, and things get better.”
“That was before you started playing out of my league,” I said, smiling when I heard her soft laughter. “Just . . . trust yourself, okay? You and Tim know E.J. better than anybody, including the pediatrician. And get some sleep, would you? You’re going to have bags under your eyes you’ll be able to store your winter clothes in.”
“Okay. How are things going with you?”
Well, let’s see. I think my vampire boss should pose for his own calendar and I’m having a crazy-daisy relapse. Otherwise—“I’m doing okay. Call me when you can, okay?”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Feeling somewhat rebalanced now I’d touched base with the most stable person I knew, I walked around to the back of the building, which faced the festival site. As I wound my way through the first tier of cars in the parking lot, a green glow near some fencing that disguised a large garbage bin distracted me from my inner teeth-gnashing. It didn’t mesh with the white of the lot lights. I drew Grief and chambered a round. The glow brightened, changing color from pine needles to ripe limes.
I closed my eyes tight for a couple of seconds, activating the night-vision contacts Bergman had designed for me. They combined with my Sensitivy-upgraded sight to show me a greenish-gold figure standing beside the fence. It faced me, but leaned over every few seconds, fully engrossed in whatever lay at its feet. Oddly, a black frame surrounded it, as if someone had outlined it with a Sharpie.
I moved closer, sliding past the dark hulks of parked vehicles, taking quick glances every few steps, trying to ide
ntify the thing on the ground that acted as both the source of the green glow and the subject of the outlined figure’s interest. When I finally caught a glance, I bit my lip to keep from gasping. It was the body of the security guard, the one who’d been hanging out with the two-faced man. His face, a twisted photo of his last tortured moments, warned me not to look any further. But I had to. One of the suckier parts of my job.
Okay, enough with the procrastinating. You’re at a possible murder scene with a potential suspect. Look at the body already.
Blood, everywhere, as if someone had tapped a geyser. Exposed ribs. Dark, glistening organs. Someone had ripped this guy’s chest open from neck to navel! The smell, damn, you just never get used to it. And thank God we were outside, otherwise I’d be puking like a bulimic after an Oreo cookie binge. Above it all hovered a jeweled cloud I could only think of as his soul. I wanted to regard it as untouched. The one part of the man his murderer could not soil. But I couldn’t. Because this is what had his killer’s attention.
No doubt, the one who’d taken his life stood right next to him still, and had been all day, posing as a man with only one face. “Man” was the wrong descriptor though. That outline—nobody I’d ever met had that. And when he leaned over, the outline split at his head and his fingers, allowing some of the greenish-gold of his inner aura to seep through.
His mouth opened wide and from it unrolled a huge, pink tongue covered with spike-like appendages. He ran it along the length of the dead man’s soul. It shivered, frantically trying to fly apart, to meld with his family, his friends, his maker. But the spikes released some sort of glue that forced the jewels into immobility. At the same time the soul cloud bleached to pastel.
The two-faced man looked up, his eyes closed, ecstasy lifting the corners of his flabby lips. And then a third eye opened on his forehead, a large, emerald green eye that darkened at the same rate at which the dead man’s soul lightened. Coincidence? I don’t think so.
I’d had enough.
I stepped forward, skirted the bumper of an El Dorado coupe, and trained my gun on the monster’s face.
“Dinner’s over, pissant.”
The two-faced man opened his regular eyes, which were blue, took one, long look at me, and growled.
“Give me a break,” I drawled, sounding oh-so-bored though my stomach spun like a roulette wheel. “I know special effects guys who can produce scarier roars than that.” Okay, I don’t really know any, but I’ve watched Resident Evil, haven’t I?
This time he bellowed, and I admit, it gave me something of a chill. But it didn’t freeze me like it was intended to. I was ready when he charged, leaping over the body like some meat-hoarding gorilla, his hands stretched wide, a full set of lethal-looking claws appearing and disappearing as he moved. If he raked those vein-poppers across my throat while they were just fingernails, would they still leave stitch-worthy gashes?
Not something I wanted to find out. I fired, five shots in quick succession. They staggered him, though I could see the black outline had worked as a shield, preventing them from delivering any fatal wounds. Five more shots backed him up, almost to the body. Thanks to Bergman’s modifications I still had five left. And I intended to make them count.
As he moved on me again, I concentrated on the breaks in his shield. They came and went in rapid succession, but I noticed a pattern based on his movements. It helped that he approached more warily this time. Apparently it still hurt to be shot. I should be thankful, but small favors sometimes suck.
I watched his face, waiting for the blur and the accompanying break in his shield. There!
I fired once, but the shield had already closed. I would have to anticipate the breaks, rather than wait for them to reveal themselves. Four rounds left. I took careful aim and fired. One. Two. Three. Four. Damn! The timing just missed with every shot. And now I’d used the last of my ammunition. If Grief didn’t work in gun mode I didn’t anticipate much success from it as a crossbow. I holstered my weapon.
But I was still armed.
Unlike Vayl, I don’t use blades as a rule. Generally if I have to get that close to a target, something’s gone terribly wrong. Same deal defensively speaking. Still, I keep one on me. My nod to the wisdom of weapons redundancy.
My backup plan started life as a bolo. It had been issued to the first of my military ancestors, Samuel Parks, before he marched off to war in 1917. Handed down father to son since that time, the ugly old knife had lost its appeal for David after Mom threw it at Dad upon finding him on top of her best pal. Since it had sailed clear through the bedroom window on that occasion, I’d discovered it on the lawn the next morning. Thus, it came to me.
I carry the knife, sheath and all, in a special pocket designed for near invisibility by my seamstress, Mistress Kiss My Ass. I call her this because it’s the response she gives me every time I call and say, “Sherry Lynn, guess what, I just got a new pair of pants!”
Reaching into my pocket, I grabbed the artfully disguised hilt and pulled. A blade the length of my shin slid out. Originally meant more as an all-purpose tool, the bolo had been refined to my needs thanks to Bergman. Now it was sharp enough to cut metal or, better yet, defend my life.
The creature circled me, looking a lot less intimidated by great-great grandpa’s knife than I would’ve liked. Well, screw it. I ran straight at him, yelling like a pissed off soccer mom, waving my blade like a samurai warrior. I faked left, right, left, watching as his shield opened wider and wider. It could not keep up with his bobbing head as he tried to avoid getting his throat cut. One more feint and I jumped forward, burying my blade in the shield gap his movements had caused.
He died instantly.
I pulled my weapon free and cleaned it on his stolen uniform. Glad the bolo had saved me. Sorry the same family had subjected it to nearly one hundred years worth of blood and guts. We seem to spawn killers, no doubt about that. I found myself hoping hard that E.J. could break that chain. Maybe when I got a free second I’d give her a call and make that suggestion. Never mind that she was less than a month old and would spend the entire time trying to eat the receiver. It’s never too early to start brainwashing your young.
BLACK SHIPS
Jo Graham
An extraordinary tale of a young woman who becomes an oracle—in an age when an oracle held more power than a king.
In a time of war and doubt, Gull is an oracle. Daughter of a slave taken from fallen Troy, chosen at the age of seven to be the voice of the Lady of the Dead, it is her destiny to counsel kings.
When nine black ships appear, captained by an exiled Trojan prince, Gull must decide between the life she has been destined for and the most perilous adventure: to join the remnant of her mother’s people in their desperate flight. From the doomed bastions of the City of Pirates to the temples of Byblos, from the intrigues of the Egyptian court to the haunted caves beneath Mount Vesuvius, only Gull can guide Prince Aeneas on his quest, and only she can dare the gates of the Underworld itself to lead him to his destiny.
In the last shadowed days of the Age of Bronze, one woman dreams of the world beginning anew. This is her story.
“Haunting and bittersweet, lush and vivid, this extraordinary story has lived with me since I first read it.” — Naomi Novik, author of Her Majesty’s Dragon
ISBN: 0-316-06800-4 / 978-0-316-06800-0
Publication Date: March 10, 2008
WORKING FOR THE DEVIL
The Dante Valentine Series Book 1
Lilith Saintcrow
Dante Valentine’s working relationship with the Devil wasn’t her choice – but you don’t turn down a contract with Lucifer and live.
Hired to kill fugitive Vardimal Santino, Dante’s only allies are a demon familiar she doesn’t trust and a small band of psychics. The thing is, Dante doesn’t need friends, she needs a miracle. Because the first time Dante Valentine met Santino, she almost died.
“A brave, charismatic protagonist with a smart mouth and a suicid
al streak. What’s not to love?”
— Publishers Weekly
THE DANTE VALENTINE SERIES
WORKING FOR THE DEVIL
ISBN: 0-316-00313-1/978-0-316-00313-1
Publication Date: September 1, 2007
DEAD MAN RISING
ISBN: 0-316-00314-X/978-0-316-00314-8
Publication Date: September 1, 2007
THE DEVIL’S RIGHT HAND
ISBN: 0-316-02142-3/978-0-316-02142-5
Publication Date: September 1, 2007
SAINT CITY SINNERS
ISBN: 0-316-02143-1/978-0-316-02143-2
Publication Date: November 1, 2007
TO HELL AND BACK
ISBN: 0-316-00177-5/978-0-316-00177-9
Publication Date: January 1, 2008
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Once Bitten, Twice Shy Page 28