Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jennifer Rardin began writing at the age of twelve. She penned eight Jaz Parks novels in her life. She passed away in September 2010.

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Once Bitten, Twice Shy

Orbit

Chapter One

"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 to night, 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.

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, key-card entry door with bulletproof 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 whispered, "According to legend this inn 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 semiclaustrophobic'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.

I wrinkled my nose at the color. Something about pink makes my stomach churn. Maybe it's the resemblance to Pepto-Bismol. Personally, my taste runs toward bolder colors. That's why I currently wore an emerald-green silk shirt under my black jacket. Unlike Vayl's coat,...