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

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 approach 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.

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