The Deadliest Bite

A JAZ PARKS NOVEL

Jennifer Rardin

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“The Deadliest Bite is not the one you get from the nest of vipers striking at you from the top of an angry gorgon’s head. It comes from the demon that’s sunk its teeth into your soul, the one that refuses to let go because, oh baby, your blood is like red, red wine.”

—Jaz Parks interview with Jennifer

Rardin, August 2007

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday, June 13, midnight

I’l say one thing about walking around with a rubber band up your asscrack—it helps train you for torture.

“They cal them thongs,” the girl at Victoria’s Secret had told me, doing her best not to look at me like I’d experienced major brain damage sometime between high school and col ege.

“I know what they cal them,” I’d said as I picked at the flimsy material and tried not to wince. “I just don’t understand why…” I’d looked around the store. They were everywhere, like fluffy pink bunnies that multiply while you aren’t looking and then blow your foot off the second you step on them.

The girl had blinked her silver-lined eyelids and shrugged. “They’re sexy.”

“Uh-huh. Are they comfortable too? Like, am I gonna come home from work al tired and grumpy and say to my dog, ‘I’m crapped out. Time for a warm bath, flannel pj’s, and my thong?’”

“It could happen.” She’d smiled, faintly, just one corner of her mouth rising, which had reminded me of why I was standing in the middle of lingerie paradise in the first place. Vayl. Who was, even now, counting to one hundred, giving me a chance to find a new cubbyhole to hide in before he began hunting the hal s of the red brick monstrosity he cal ed home.

As I padded through neatly arranged rooms ful of expensive furniture and beautiful y displayed antiques, it struck me as hilarious that the vampire who owned them al chose to spend his free time playing strip hide-and- seek with his sorta-human girlfriend. I caught sight of myself in the gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace and smiled. Because I was more than that. Vayl cal ed me his avhar—a Vampere word that described better than any other the infinite number of ties that bound me to him. I also smiled because, after sixteen days of rest and relaxation from a series of missions that had nearly kil ed both of us, I had to admit I was looking better. Eating three meals a day had fil ed out the hol ows. Now I couldn’t count each rib just by looking. My fingernails had stopped flaking. My eyes had brightened until sometimes they reminded me eerily of my father’s snapping green orbs as they cut through us the first day he got home from a tour, inspecting the troops to see how we’d grown in his absence. Even my curls seemed bouncier and redder except, of course, for the white-streaked one that curved into my right cheek like a familiar friend. I didn’t let my glance linger on it. No point in reminding myself of my first trip to hel when this game, like al the others Vayl and I had played, was designed to make the most of the time we had left until I had to go back.

“Fee fi fo fum! My senses are tingling with huuu-man!” Vayl cal ed.

“Crap!” Just one in Vayl’s awesome bag-o-tricks was the ability to pick up on strong emotions.

My little detour down Vanity Lane had given away my position.

One last glance in the mirror. We’d been playing the game for a while. Al he’d left me wearing was a watch, the blue lace Victoria’s Secret underwire I’d bought, which gave me such incredible lift I had actual cleavage (yeah, baby!), the matching dungeons-r-us thong, and a pair of three-inch black heels that made sneaking damn near impossible but did wonders for my legs. Of course Vayl was down to a pair of red silk boxers, so our next encounter promised to be mondo fun. Especial y if I made the hunt interesting.

I snapped the band of my watch. My super-genius buddy Bergman had invented it for me, wiring it to use the kinetic energy it had stored from my movements to shield their sound. Sometimes being an assassin for the CIA comes in handy. Especial y when you get to use cool spy gadgets to play sneak-n-peek with your lover.

I was on the main floor, looking for a decent place to tuck in, listening for sounds of movement above and hearing none. Geez, the guy lived in a ninety-year-old Victorian! Shouldn’t one floorboard squeak? Then I’d know which staircase he was descending, at least. The main one connected the second, third, and fourth floors to the front door. The rear stairs, darker and much narrower because snobs didn’t think servants deserved elbow room back when, only went from the kitchen to the second floor, where al the bedrooms were located, and the basement, where al the creepy, clanky junk had been instal ed.

Though I wasn’t sure I had time, I paused for a second, reached out, and sniffed. My nostrils flared, though the scent that wafted into my brain stem had nothing to do with true odor. It was al mental, and never before had I been so pleased to have had this Sensitivity to others (as in nonhumans) dumped on me. The price, dying twice and then being brought back by a mind-blowing Power with a soft spot for model trains, and me, had always seemed too high. Even though I’d gotten to know Raoul wel enough to think of him as both my Spirit Guide and my friend, it stil did.

But if I could final y get some fun out of the deal, maybe… there! Vayl was definitely sneaking down the servants’ stairs.

I tiptoed toward the front of the house and slipped into a room he liked to cal the conservatory.

Although when I told him Miss Scarlet did it in there with the candlestick he just looked at me blankly and said, “Was the candlestick sitting on the pianoforte?” In some ways the dude is permanently stuck in the