Jennifer Rardin - [Jaz Parks 1] - Once Bitten, Twice Shy

chairs stood at the open end of the room, made even more prominent by the ornate Persian rug under them. Floating next to the table, I could see a set of stone stairs leading upward. But my guide had left strict instructions. So I dove through the wide-planked pine floor into the cancerous bowels of Club Undead.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I fell into a pit, the symbolic significance of which did not escape me. Lit by flaming torches, painted by their smoke, the pit easily measured four times the width and length of the wine cellar standing above it. Uneven stacks of floor-to-ceiling stone impeded the view, so you could never see more than a quarter of it at once. The walls were as crooked as the load-bearing columns, as if some enormous mole had been snacking on various sections, leaving shallow caverns and outcroppings in its wake.

I drifted around the pit's perimeter, hugging the jagged wall like an amateur skater. The floor beneath my non- feet looked muddy, and steaming pools of viscous liquid made me wonder just what a good CSI would discover given the right chemicals.

In one corner a bona fide stream trickled through a gap in the wall and exited via a basin that could've been twenty feet deep for all its blank, black surface revealed. In another corner I discovered portable metal stairs that led up to a door in the ceiling. A quick check confirmed that it opened to the wine cellar, though it was hidden by the rug that lay beneath the tasting table.

About halfway between the stream basin and the stair, a folding table leaned against the wall. It reminded me of the church buffet suppers Granny May had dragged us kids to on alternating Sunday nights during our summer visits. Eight devoted parishioners could've used it comfortably, or perhaps, not so comfortably after all. The dried stains on the table top looked a lot more like blood than beef gravy.

The occupants of the pit stood in groups of two or three, wearing basic black, as if they meant to attend a highbrow cocktail party after the festivities ended here. I counted thirteen all together, none of whom I recognized as major players. Disappointed that Bozcowski, Aidyn and Assan, not to mention Derek and Liliana, were haunting some other pit—I mean part—of Miami, I continued my exploration. Still hugging the wall, I moved toward the part of the room furthest from the stairs.

I saw her before she saw me, and though I withdrew into a shallow alcove, I knew she would not miss me once she knew what to look for. The Tor-al-Degan viewed the world through cold, dead eyes, making me feel like a deer forced to drink from crocodile infested waters. Irises the color of gangrene swam in pus-hued sclera, making any of the acolytes they rested on shudder and back up a step. I'm not sure I'd have held my ground either. And I could understand why no picture of her existed in Cassandra's old books. She was just plain hard to see.

It could have been a trick of the lighting, the rise and fall of flame throwing odd shadows so all you got were confusing snapshots, none of which revealed an entire picture. After the eyes I didn't expect to glimpse an ounce of beauty in the beast, but there was a finely sculpted cheekbone, and there, the smooth curve of a shoulder. But I couldn't blame the fizzle, fade the Tor did next on the torches. I blinked, squeezed my eyes shut before I remembered they weren't physical orbs at the moment.

Must be tough, existing in a couple of different planes at once, I thought, as she gained enough definition that I could make out a foot, oh, ugh, make that a big, hairy claw. Definitely hard on the posture, too. She seemed to hunch, as if to protect something she held close, though I couldn't tell what it might be since she wore a dark, voluminous gown that hid a great deal. Then she turned her head and I saw the webbed tissue that connected her neck to something even larger that moved, squirmed, underneath the material that covered her back.

Again, the Tor-al-Degan began to fade, taking on the translucence of fine Japanese paper. She turned her head toward the waiting crowd, which immediately began to chant and sway, reminding me of the snake charmers I'd seen on Discovery Channel specials. Three women, all in their late thirties, all prematurely gray, stepped forward. They kept their backs to the crowd as they knelt on the floor, their knees sinking a good inch in the muck. The rest of the group formed a semicircle behind them and fell to their knees as well. The bottom third of their pants darkened as the cloth soaked up the mystery soup that covered the floor. As I tried to figure out its ingredients, Granny May's strident voice popped into my head. Well, that'll never come out, not even with bleach. Frankly, I was glad to hear her. This whole scene gave me the willies. Mostly because I figured my sacrifice was going to be part of the Big Finish.

The Tor's eyes swiveled in their sockets as she opened her mouth so wide her jaw came unhinged with an audible pop. Enormous fangs descended from the pointed teeth surrounding them, and she spit thick white goo at the watchers, making them cringe and retreat though they continued to chant. Then the Tor whipped her head sideways and slammed those teeth into the wall. The power she might soon unleash became clear as she took a bite out of the trembling earth, leaving ugly black scars in her wake.

As soon as she began to chew she solidified, and I realized how she'd managed to survive in this state for so long. Not only did she gain sustenance from unwilling souls, she fed on the earth as well. Assuming our Native Americans were right, some of the earth's spirit entered her that way, providing even more nourishment. Though I don't throw trash on the ground and I have been known to recycle a soda can or two, I'd never thought of myself as an environmentalist until that moment, when all I could see were the scars she'd left in her steady consumption of the good earth.

That's enough, I thought. That's all I need to see. That's all I want to see.

I rushed back to my body and found it where I'd left it, still blinking and breathing, still alone. Out the window I flew, my phantom heart skipping a beat when I discovered the cords connecting me with everyone who mattered in my life had now visibly faded, a hushed octet drawn from the original magnificent orchestra.

Urgency moved me to new speeds and I reached the van within 30 seconds. Vayl jumped in his seat when I dropped through the roof, landing on, or rather in, Cassandra's lap. Muttering a quick apology, I withdrew to my former spot while Vayl informed Bergman and Cole that I'd rejoined them.

'They've started the ceremony,' I said. 'It's happening below the basement of Club Undead.'

Vayl slammed on the brakes and I suddenly found myself perched on the hood of the van as it slid to a stop inches from the back bumper of a dirty green station wagon. Just ahead of us a four-car pileup jammed the street. It must've just happened, because all the drivers involved still sat in their cars and no cops were in sight. I moved over to Vayl's side of the van, standing beside his window as if I really had feet, and told him what I'd seen.

'Dammit!' Vayl never swore. Never. I guess that's when I knew how much he cared. He jerked the van into reverse, but braked hard again as he realized a parade of mini-vans had him blocked in.

He shoved the van into park and let it idle. 'This is going to take a few minutes. Go back to your body and stall them.'